Someone to Teach Them : York and the Great University Explosion, 1960 -1973 [1 ed.] 9781442689176, 9780802098276

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SOMEONE TO TEACH THEM: YORK AND THE GREAT UNIVERSITY EXPLOSION, 1960–1973

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JOHN T. SAYWELL

Someone to Teach Them York and the Great University Explosion, 1960–1973

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

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© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2008 www.utppublishing.com Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN 978-0-8020-9827-6

Printed on acid-free paper

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Saywell, John, 1929–ll, John M. Someone to teach them : York and the great university explosion, 1960–1973 / John T. Saywell. Includes index. ISBN 978-0-8020-9827-6 1. York University (Toronto, Ont.) – History. 2. School enrollment – Ontario – History. 3. Saywell, John, 1929–. 4. Deans (Education) – Ontario – Toronto – Biography. 5. York University (Toronto, Ont.) – Biography. I. Title. LE3.Y6S39 2008

378.713′541

C2007-907215-1

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

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For Willard W. Piepenburg University Professor Emeritus, York University and John C. Ricker Professor Emeritus, University of Toronto Close friends and indispensable colleagues for more than half a century

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We shall have 20,000 more undergraduates in 1965, and no matter what kind of institution we put them into, someone will have to teach them. Report of the Presidents of the Universities of Ontario to the Advisory Committee on University Affairs, January 1963.

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Contents

Apologia xi 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

A Fork in the Road: The Move to York University 3 From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963 10 The ‘College System’: A Sacred Myth 31 ‘General Education’: Flawed Design, Rich Legacy 49 ‘Someone Will Have to Teach Them’ 65 ‘The Imperialists: It’s Good to Know They’re in Town’ Students: Prisoners, Clients, or Partners? 112 Questions of Quality 129 The Politics of the Presidency, 1969–1970 147 You Win Some, You Lose Some: Creating the Faculty of Education 169 11 Other New Faculties 191 12 The Dean’s Chair 211 13 The Party Is Over, 1972 229 14 An Unnecessary Tragedy, 1972–1973 248 Reflections: Then and Now 277 A Note on Sources 287 Index 293

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Apologia

Someone to Teach Them began as a personal memoir of my ten years in the dean’s chair at York University, but luckily it soon began to have the appearance of a book. The decade of the 1960s witnessed the birth pangs and birth of the present Ontario university system. Today the old system would be unrecognizable to anyone under seventy. The old universities – dominated by Toronto, Western, and Queen’s – were joined by a dozen new or amalgamated universities, from Trent in the southeast to Lakehead in the northwest. I believed there was much that should be written about the political and university response to what by 1960 was clearly as an approaching crisis in university education. Equally important, I believed that the experience of one of the new universities, which faced unprecedented challenges, would provide an important illustrative chapter on how the system met these challenges. That story seemed much too important to be confined to a short autobiographical essay about York. Even if that were not so, the production of a satisfactory memoir written from a study of limited resources was unlikely. My memory has long since been unreliable with regard to either time or fact, and in correspondence and discussions with many of my colleagues I found that in this respect I was not alone. Thus – in part at least – I was driven to the archives to become an historian. I say ‘in part’ because I had played an important role in York’s early history, and so this book cannot help but be in part autobiographical, not only in what I write but in what I have selected to write about. I have tried to keep in mind the wise words of a York colleague – ‘I suspect that not all of us are immune to enhancing our positive roles in events and sublimating any less than noble involvement we may

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have had in those times.’ I have tried to be truthful and modest, except when the truth is uncertain and modesty impossible because it distorts the truth. It has not been easy – indeed, perhaps it is impossible – to separate the role of historian and memorist. After reading the manuscript, another colleague observed, ‘There’s a severe tension between the narrator and the rememberer. And why shouldn’t there be? You’re a very competent historian, a paid-up member of the guild. But you are or were a central actor in the very real drama you are recounting here. Worse, you seem compelled to mince those meats now in a way that tells the reader that on many matters, you are conflicted still about what you and others did or failed to do, or about what you judged then and are less certain about today. It matters to you, or you wouldn’t be writing what you do here.’ The early years of York’s history do matter to me. It matters whether my judgement was sound and decisions wise. It matters whether my relations with the faculty were open and collegial and I was viewed as their advocate in dealing with presidents and boards of governors. It matters whether presidents saw me as supportive but not sycophantic in the overall development of the university. And it matters still whether we did the best job we could in helping the university system face a population explosion that it had never experienced before, and in creating a base on which the York University of the future could be built. The mandate imposed on us by the government and the committee of presidents of the Ontario universities was to grow from a few hundred undergraduates in 1963 to 7,000 undergraduates seven years later. We did that and more. By 1972–73 York had 15,000 full- and parttime undergraduates and graduate students in nine faculties. York’s annual operating budget exploded from a few hundred thousand dollars to over $40 million, most of which was for the salaries of the hundreds of faculty we had to find to teach the 15,000 students. But if our successes were many, so too were our failures. This account, I hope, will reveal both. Like all other universities in the new, permissive, and open culture of the 1960s, we faced the challenges of university governance, of the legal jurisdiction of boards, presidents, and senate, and of how power should be shared among boards, administration, faculty, and students. Like other universities, we faced the radical student movement, whose most determined cause at York was opposition to the capitalism and

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imperialism that supposedly were the inevitable consequences of the large influx of American faculty. Among the new universities, York was in many ways unique. We rested in the shadow of the University of Toronto – were in fact its creation – which, whatever its faults, was a good university with an even better reputation. Unlike Queen’s and Western, York was not socially acceptable – and to many south of St Clair it still isn’t. It was all very well to say that in fifty years York would be in the demographic centre of greater Toronto, but then it existed on an isolated and barren fringe of farmland north of the city, surrounded by ugly oil tank farms, and serviced by a hopelessly inadequate transit system. Visiting York today, it is hard to remember it as it was then. Looking back, I wonder why anyone would have chosen to join York. This book/memoir owes much to those men and women who worked to lay the foundations of York University. In letters and in endless conversation they have helped reconstruct the story as I think it happened. They and the major archival sources for the book are included in a brief bibliographical note. Mercifully the book is not laden with references. The context – or explicit references in the text usually makes the provenance of the content clear. Most of those mentioned in this book I knew well – some of them very well. It has been difficult to call them by their last name, and for some it has been impossible. That is my excuse for the inconsistencies.

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SOMEONE TO TEACH THEM: YORK AND THE GREAT UNIVERSITY EXPLOSION, 1960–1973

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1 A Fork in the Road: The Move to York University

Late in the fall of 1962 I received a call from Murray Ross, the president of York University, inviting me to lunch at the York Club, Toronto’s finest, at St George and Bloor. I had never met Ross, although he had been a vice-president at the University of Toronto, where I was teaching, before going to York. He was a warm and jovial Scot who had not completely distanced himself from his Cape Breton background. As the sun was over the yardarm – Murray’s sole criterion – he ordered his customary sweet manhattan, while I had a dry vodka martini. After some introductory banter, he explained that he wanted to talk about the possibility of my joining him at York. I knew little about the upstart university that had opened its doors in 1960 at Falconer Hall on the University of Toronto campus. From our offices next door in Flavelle House, we historians ridiculed the touch football games in the backyard and tales of ‘tea and talk’ that apparently consumed Sunday afternoons. The following year York had moved to our university’s Glendon Hall campus at Bayview and Lawrence, previously occupied by the law faculty, which had moved downtown to usurp our lovely home in Flavelle House and banish us to the architectural disaster named after the recently departed president Sidney Smith. The playschool we had observed bore little relation to the great university that Ross envisioned. The campus at Glendon would remain as a small college. York’s major task, he explained, would be to build a large university on the northwest outskirts of the city. It would be new, it would be big, it could be innovative, and it would have a distinctive curriculum already being fashioned at Glendon. The challenge was enormous; the opportunities infinite. He was looking for a dean who would build the university’s faculty and develop the curriculum while he and a powerful and dedicated board built the university. I had been

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suggested for the job. Would I visit Glendon and meet members of the faculty? I agreed. There were not many members of the faculty on the Glendon campus – perhaps three dozen. For some reason I had appointments with very few – all of them senior, but not all the seniors. The substance of most interviews now escapes me, but overall the discussions seemed superficial. Fortunately, perhaps, I was not pressed to outline any views I might have had about university education or reveal what little I knew about York. Edgar McInnis, the chair of history, whom I had known for years in his role as the head of the Canadian Institute of International Affairs, was solidly conservative, not one, I thought, to reveal any institutional secrets or to build a great department of history. Hans Carol, the geography chair, was in his stolid way enthusiastic about the future of York but seemed little interested in any ideas I might have. Mortimer Appley, the dynamic chair of psychology who had arrived only that fall, pressed me hard on when I thought graduate work should begin. My answer – that we should first get the departments firmly established – did not please him. He insisted that we must begin graduate work at once. Bill Kilbourn, the historian who had come from McMaster to head the Division of Humanities, obviously found the freedom to teach in the wider field of the humanities more attractive than in the narrower discipline of history. He was keen and passionate about the future of York. I suspect it was he who had suggested my name, and he urged me to come to York and begin recruiting an outstanding faculty. A meeting with Dean Rollo Earl revealed why Kilbourn thought that task was urgent. Earl had retired after many years as dean at Queen’s and was filling in as chair of botany at Toronto when Murray Ross phoned Claude Bissell, president of the University of Toronto, and begged him for help finding a temporary dean. Bissell suggested Earl, and Alex Corry, principal of Queen’s, released him from a commitment to return to that university. Earl’s view of the university, however noble, was a product of the prewar world. He wanted to rule with an iron hand and to give and obey orders. Apparently his steadiness was what York needed. His predecessor had been George Tatham, the geographer from the University of Toronto, who was boundlessly enthusiastic about Ross, York, the proposed new curriculum, and the students. But Tatham had no questions for me. Finally, there was John Seeley, an old bridge-playing friend of Murray’s and his key initial appointment. A Chicago graduate, Seeley

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had written the well-known books Community Chest and Crestwood Heights and had become deeply involved in research on alcoholism. This was my first meeting with Seeley, and we had a strange and apparently inconsequential talk. But when I left his office, he said quietly, ‘Do come to York. It needs your kind of leadership.’ I left wondering what he meant. In his memoirs, The Way Must Be Tried, Murray recalls that Of all the candidates with whom I talked I was most impressed with the youngest of the group – John Saywell. He was a Ph.D. from Harvard in history. In that department at Toronto he was one of the brightest of the younger men with promise of productive scholarship ahead. I investigated carefully – he was young, impetuous, occasionally rash, but he had great capacity to organize his work, was deeply driven to succeed in any task he undertook, and as his publisher said, ‘In ten years working with him he has never missed a deadline.’ Of the candidates interviewed by department heads, Saywell was also the favourite, so it remained merely to get his agreement.

A week after the interviews, Ross and I lunched again at the York Club. Apparently the faculty I had met were enthusiastic about my coming to York. Murray reassured me that Rollo Earl was staying for only another year and would play no role in planning the future. The budget would be in my hands. The salary proposed was handsome. I told Murray that I was interested and would be in touch soon. I had no reason to leave the University of Toronto, where I had been since 1954. For my first few years there I had been tempted by attractive offers from American universities in the Harvard farm system, such as Williams and Swarthmore. The University of Washington was seductive because Seattle was close to my Vancouver Island roots, but I had forgotten how much I hated the rain. After a term in Berkeley as a visiting professor, I had accepted a very attractive offer from that university, but had changed my mind in the months before the bureaucratic mill at the University of California managed to produce an official offer from the chancellor. I returned to Toronto knowing that my interests – in history, politics, and public affairs – were Canadian and that I could be content in teaching and writing only among those who shared my interests. I loved teaching at Toronto. The students in my honours seminars

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were top-flight; the graduate students were becoming better all the time, and many later joined me at York. Two books I had written had been very well received, as had several articles. Since 1957 I had been editor of the Canadian Historical Review for the University of Toronto Press. In 1959 I had persuaded Marsh Jeanneret of the press to let me re-create the Canadian Annual Review, which had died before the Second World War: the 1960 volume appeared in the spring of 1961. Meanwhile, Claude Bissell and Henry Borden, the chairman of the board, had asked me to write the biography of the latter’s uncle, Prime Minister Sir Robert Borden, and I had spent a month in England doing preliminary research. The Social Science Research Council in New York, which had funded some of my doctoral research, awarded me an invitational research leave. My position at Toronto was professionally secure and intellectually stimulating, even if it was not financially rewarding. However, university teaching and scholarly research left time for other activities, some of which were financially rewarding. By the late 1950s I was a regular commentator on CBC radio and television. I participated in a series of historical dramas and documentaries for television, many in association with Eric Koch and Mel Breen, the first of which aired in 1960. I had written and edited a number of textbooks for Clarke Irwin and was general editor of their history series. And I was committed to writing a volume in the Centenary Series for McClelland and Stewart. Could all – or indeed any – of this survive a move to York? I had little interest in or, as I discovered, talent for administration. But I was unhappy with the manner in which the University of Toronto was governed. It seemed in bondage to a history from which ghosts could be summoned to defeat any argument for more than incremental change. At every level it was top-down. Not long before I left, a number of us in the Department of History were convinced that we – the faculty – must have a voice in the selection of the chair when Donald Creighton retired. Yet some time later, when one of the group was summoned to Simcoe Hall, he returned to announce that he was our new chair. His explanation was that if he had not accepted, we would have had somebody worse! The Department of History, like the university, was set in its ways, content to rest on its somewhat suspect reputation, and concerned with curricular trivia. It was neither willing nor able to realize its potential as the boom years of the 1960s began. The offer from York was attractive because it seemed to promise the opportunity for cre-

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ative, not routine, administration: to fashion undergraduate and graduate programs without the constraints of institutional history (or ancient faculty), to recruit an outstanding faculty, and to establish a congenial and participatory academic and administrative culture and governance. Could any of this be accomplished at a university that, to a large extent, existed only in name and aspirations. Good students, among the few hundred who attended the nascent York, were apparently rare. There were rumours of dissatisfaction with the proposed new curriculum in general education. I learned of a not very flattering article about York by Barbara Moon in Maclean’s and rumours of faculty dissatisfaction with the president. Despite such rumblings, and contrary to my training as an historian, I did no research into the new institution. As I look back, I am amazed at how little I knew about Murray Ross, the plans for York, or the enormous problems that the province and the universities would face as the baby boomers hit the campus. However, by nature and upbringing I was drawn to change and tempted by challenges. York was a temptation that I could not resist. Before accepting Murray’s offer, I talked to Marsh Jeanneret, editor at the University of Toronto Press. I had decided earlier that six years of the Canadian Historical Review was enough, but that the Annual Review needed time to find a secure footing. Marsh was eager for me to remain as editor and major contributor, and one of my conditions with Murray Ross was that York would provide me with full-time secretarial/research support for the Review. Although he reluctantly agreed, he would argue later that York received no benefit from this support, and that he had assumed the agreement was for only a year or two. After accepting York’s offer, I spoke with Vincent Bladen, who had been a source of great support for my research, and Claude Bissell. Both men urged me to reconsider. I wanted to discuss with Bissell the future of the Borden biography, which I felt should remain a University of Toronto project. Bissell agreed. He also suggested that I had an administrative future at Toronto if that was my ambition. I tried to explain, as politely as I could, that administration in an old, established university where change, when possible, could be only at the margins did not interest me. When we wished each other well as I left, he asked me how well I knew Murray. Not well at all, I replied, except for the few hours we had spent talking about York. ‘Do you think you can trust him?’ he asked. I had no answer.

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Norman Mackenzie, like Murray a maritimer and university president, was more forthcoming, though still discreet, when he warned Escott Reid, before the latter became principal of Glendon College in 1965, that Murray was inclined to promise more than he could deliver. Edward ‘Pat’ Pattullo, who came to York when I did but left within two years feeling betrayed, later attributed this aspect of Murray’s character to a kind of benign, Kiwanian enthusiasm, rather than deceit. But, as I soon learned, others were less charitable. Whatever his motive, Murray did seem to make promises with his fingers crossed. Soon after I accepted the position, he explained that the board of governors had rejected the salary he had promised. Later he apologized for another downward revision, which supposedly came about because the board felt that I should not make more than the acting temporary dean, who was much my senior. I was tempted to crawl back to Toronto, but the bridges had been burned. As I later learned, Murray, when it was convenient to do so, too often silenced an argument by invoking a fictitious ‘board decision.’ On 14 January 1963 the board of governors approved my appointment as associate dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science. The position offered and accepted had been dean-designate, chairman of the Division of Social Science, and associate professor of history, effective 1 July 1963. The same board approved Edward Pattullo’s appointment as associate dean, Faculty of Arts and Science, although he thought that he had been hired as vice-president-designate for university affairs. Pattullo and I became involved in York affairs in the spring of 1963 in a variety of ways, including a three-day planning conference organized by Murray. Neither of us expected the story that burst in the press on 28 June and continued for more than a week: a number of senior faculty members had resigned, declaring that York was an administrative mess with a president who could not be trusted. One source stated that it was ‘difficult to convey the disturbed climate in faculty and student circles engendered by broken promises, misrepresentations, suspicion, contradiction and manipulation on the part of the president almost constantly in day to day dealings with the faculty.’ On 2 July John Seeley, apparently the leader of the dissidents, called for a full and independent inquiry: ‘What York needs is not merely new but quite different leadership.’ I recalled his comment to me as we parted following our initial meeting, and wished he had been more open. Robert Winters, the board chair, called an emergency meeting of the

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board on 3 July and announced that ‘they had full confidence’ in Murray ‘and in his ability to handle whatever genuine grievances there might be.’ The fork in the road seemed less attractive in July than it had in January. From the press, it was apparent that discontent was widespread, and I was not long on campus before I realized just how deep ran the distrust and disaffection. But I decided there were more pressing matters at hand and studiously avoided even inquiring about what became known as the ‘Seeley affair.’ The time would come when the early history of York could be explored and written. And now it has.

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2 From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

The late 1950s and the 1960s marked the great era of university expansion in Ontario. The university-age population exploded and the participation rate increased. If demographers had predicted the future, no one had listened until it was too late for rational planning. York University was one of the new creations in response to the student explosion, and its history for a few years after its inception was a remarkable and sometimes painful transition from illusions to reality. For Murray Ross and the board of governors, rapid growth, while undesirable in itself, was a necessary response to public imperatives. Others at York could not accept for any reasons the failure to realize the early dreams of a ‘new’ institution. York’s 1959 Charter endowed the university’s senate with the responsibility for the ‘educational policy of the university.’ Nevertheless, senate was asked to rubber stamp presidential and board decisions that neither senate members nor faculty had a hand in determining. And while curriculum was clearly within the jurisdiction of senate and its faculty council, each had been asked to vote first and think later. As a result, the first few years were marked by a sense of the faculty’s being manipulated, a lack of transparency, and a widespread lack of trust. By the late 1950s educational authorities had finally realized that the pressure of numbers on the Ontario university system would soon be unbearable. In 1955 J.G. Althouse, the provincial director of education, forecast that within ten years the university population of 21,000 would double. He warned the minister of education that the established universities did ‘not intend to double their enrolment but rather raise standards of admission very sharply.’ Existing universities’ pro-

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posed expansion of 10 per cent within the decade would accommodate only 23,000 of the anticipated 42,000 students. As time passed without significant action, the dimensions of the problem grew dramatically. Coincidentally, in the 1950s a group of Toronto businessmen and individuals associated with the YMCA began to promote the idea of a new university in the city. They were not concerned with the problem of numbers, but rather wanted to establish a university that would provide a more practical education than that offered by the University of Toronto. By 1958 Air Marshall W.A. Curtis, vice-chairman of A.V. Roe, had become chair of a provisional board of governors for the new institution. Claude Bissell, appointed president of the University of Toronto in 1958, was acutely aware of the pressures on his university. On 7 November 1958 he wrote to Colonel Eric Phillips, the powerful business magnate who had been the chairman of the board since 1945, that he saw at least a short-term solution in commandeering the proposed York University: My suggestion, which I put forward simply as a basis for discussion, is that we talk to the York University people about the possibility of the new foundation entering our college scheme. It would have to deviate from the present pattern; I would think of it as having some of the characteristics of the state college and some of the characteristics of the federated colleges. It would be a state college in the sense that it would be non-sectarian, and would then, presumably, be eligible for provincial grants. It would be a federated college in the sense that it would have its own Board of Trustees and would manage its own financial affairs. We would have to work out specifically the nature of the relationship to the University in the matter of appointments ... I think that Prime Minister Frost would be receptive to the idea, since it would help solve the problem of additional facilities for higher education.

Undoubtedly with Phillips’s approval, Bissell lunched with Curtis on 17 November 1958 and later proposed that York become a federated college that would observe the academic standards of the University of Toronto, grant its degrees, and enjoy the same autonomy as its three existing colleges. To make the proposal more palatable, he added that it ‘would always be possible for you if you so desired to break free from the University of Toronto and to establish yourself as a separate independent university. It is, of course, assumed that you would con-

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tinue your present plan to build on a campus somewhere beyond the main area of the city.’ There were many advantages for York to be so connected to the University of Toronto, Bissell continued: the immediate recognition that it would not be second rate, inclusion in the existing university’s capital campaign, and immediate qualification for provincial grants. Finally, York would have access to ‘teaching resources that as an independent institution you could not hope to find for many years … You should rely upon the University for instruction in the social sciences and the sciences. This, of course, could be modified by mutual agreement.’ The proposal, Bissell concluded, was an opportunity ‘to make a statesmanlike move that will bring immense benefits to this Province.’ The York board rejected the federated college principle. The terms of affiliation laid out in the board’s reply included the right for York to become independent ‘as quickly as possible’; full university status; the appointment of a president responsible to the York board; the appointment of its own faculty, which would soon teach all of the curriculum; freedom to alter the curriculum; the right to ‘undertake all or any investigations and research that is deemed essential to develop an independent philosophy, curriculum and pedagogical practice’; and the right to determine the numbers admitted and entrance requirements, which would not be lower than at the University of Toronto. It was an audacious reply from a university that did not exist even on paper and probably would never have got beyond the dreaming stage had it not been for Bissell and Phillips. Early in December 1958 the York board met with Bissell and Murray Ross, his vice-president. They encouraged the committee to secure a provincial charter for York. Phillips had easy access to Premier Leslie Frost, who was receptive to the idea of federation, but the premier offered no financial support and insisted that the group have the full support of the University of Toronto and the broader business community. After preliminary discussions on 17 March 1959, Bissell appointed a negotiating committee, including Murray Ross, under Cecil Wright, the dean of law. In April York received its charter and established a new negotiating committee, with Curtis as chairman. By May the broad outline of an agreement had been reached. York would be affiliated with Toronto for not less than four or more than eight years. During this period, York would offer courses only within the University of Toronto three-year general course, maintain equivalent entrance and evaluation standards, and have all faculty appointments

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approved by Toronto. York would be given Falconer Hall on the downtown Toronto campus for a year and then the use of the Glendon campus for what at first was an indefinite period. Although Toronto’s terms were severe, the agreement provided an immediate practical solution, which, given Phillips’s relations with Frost, was probably the only one. With the pressure of numbers somewhat relieved, Toronto’s senate unanimously approved the agreement, although it had some concerns about academic quality at the new institution. Even before the final agreement was announced on 1 May 1959, Murray Ross wrote Curtis, urging him to seize the opportunity to create a unique institution, and at the same time perhaps was preaching for a call. Bissell and Phillips would not have appreciated the content of his letter: Ross wrote that, while affiliation had some advantages, it ‘should not submerge any distinctive character York may have ... Neither staff nor students will be attracted to a university that simply has the same offerings, but few of the advantages of our other Colleges at Toronto.’ As an ‘interested observer,’ Ross suggested that the tutorial ‘be the basis of instruction,’ that the curriculum be a ‘concentration of a few well integrated courses,’ and that ‘emphasis be given to the Social Sciences,’ which were undeveloped in Canada and an area ‘in which an enterprising university could readily capture the field.’ His suggestions, he concluded, were made ‘in the spirit of one anxious to have York fulfill its destiny in Canadian education.’ As Curtis said a decade later at a banquet honouring Ross, there was so much that was new in his thinking that ‘when I read the letter to our committee, they agreed unanimously that he was the man we should have as president, and authorized me to explore the possibility.’ In June the York board agreed that Curtis could approach Bissell to see if Murray Ross might be available. Bissell was more than agreeable for, as Ross wrote in his memoirs, he soon realized that he ‘was not the best fit’ for the team Bissell was building. In the unpublished draft of his book Halfway Up Parnassus, Bissell wrote that it ‘seemed to me and many others that Ross was a logical choice and I made that clear to Curtis at the end of the academic year’ (he deleted the italicized words in the published version). With Bissell’s approval, Curtis and Murray met. On 12 July 1959 Ross informed the committee that he would accept the position if and when a strong board of governors was established. The provisional committee accepted the condition and formally reconstituted itself as the provisional board of governors, with Curtis again serving as chairman.

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On 17 September Curtis informed the board that Ross would accept the presidency if Dr R.F. Farquharson, Allan Lambert, J.S. Proctor, E.H. Walker, and W.P. Scott would form the reconstituted board. But the proposed new members had also told Curtis ‘to clean up the situation with the present board before they came into it.’ Meanwhile, Eric Phillips had told Ross that Curtis had to be removed as chairman and that he found Robert Winters an acceptable replacement. Although Scott and company had not accepted positions on the new board, on 3 November they persuaded the unsuspecting old board to invite Winters to be chairman with ‘freedom in the selection of members of the Board.’ Aware of what was planned, Bissell and Phillips issued a press release on 9 November declaring that the authority of the provisional board was ‘in the process of being transferred to a Permanent Board.’ However, Winters had not formally accepted his appointment when, to the amazement of the old York board, Premier Frost announced on 26 November that Winters had been appointed chairman. The Globe and Mail reported on 3 December that Winters had named Curtis, Lambert, Proctor, Scott, and Walker to the board and that they had met and chosen Murray Ross as president. There was some messy legal cleaning up to be done before the old York board disappeared. Murray Ross was president of York University and Robert Winters was chairman of a powerful board made up of Toronto’s business establishment. Beyond that, nothing was certain. As far as Leslie Frost, Eric Phillips, and Claude Bissell were concerned, York was a satellite campus that existed to soak up the surplus students about to seek admission to the University of Toronto. Ross understood the circumstances of York’s birth, but in his early planning tried to accommodate that reality with his dream of creating the unique institution envisioned in his letter to Curtis. The immediate issues, however, were the pace of growth and the size of the university. By 20 November 1959 Ross had drafted ‘Some Notes on York University and Its Future.’ He foresaw an enrolment of about 400 students within five years, when the affiliation with Toronto would end. York would by then have determined its future by choosing among a number of alternative models, of which he described four as ‘perhaps the more realistic.’ They ranged from a downtown commuters’ university like Sir George Williams in Montreal to a University of Michigan with 25,000 students, or perhaps even to a Princeton with 5,000

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students, largely in residence, on a beautiful rural campus, with excellent libraries and research facilities, and an emphasis ‘on the highest quality in every aspect of university life.’ Yet York’s choices were already being determined in Ontario’s secondary schools. On 25 January 1960 Bissell warned Phillips that the tidal wave of numbers would hit ‘far more quickly than we ever dreamed,’ long before ‘we have either the buildings or the staff to face it. What we must do in the interim is to insist upon the most rigorous enforcement of standards; indeed, we might well consider raising those standards in as many areas as possible.’ Murray Ross had also read the latest forecast that by 1970 there would be 30,000 students seeking to enrol in university in Toronto. On 2 March 1960 he informed the board that York must announce its long-term plan as soon as possible. Despite the pressure, Murray continued to dream – in both practical and unrealistic ways – about the great university outlined in his 1959 notes. On 19 April he insisted that York was committed to becoming a liberal arts university that would ‘find its place in the tradition established by such top-ranking universities as Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard and Yale, in which scholarship in the arts and natural sciences constitute[s] the central core of the University.’ Such a university, with a faculty of first-class scholars and teachers, would offer a quality of education ‘vastly superior’ to a commuters’ college and to the specialization that characterized other Ontario universities. But while of great value in producing ‘many of the nation’s leaders,’ such a university, he admitted, would not only need private funding but would be incapable of absorbing the burgeoning student population. The time had come for realism and to determine ‘the degree to which compromises must be made and in what manner.’ The province would want York to take as many as 8,000 to 12,000 students at some point in the future. Such a number could not be attracted with the exclusively liberal or ‘general education’ curriculum envisioned: York would have to offer professional and disciplinary undergraduate education as well as graduate work. Therefore, Ross rationalized, York might just as well be one of the largest universities in Canada in which ‘per-student costs are low and in which there is sufficient money (since funds are often provided on a per-student basis by the government) to pay good salaries and recruit good staff. There is no virtue in a small college staffed by second- or third-rate people.’ With this reasoning, Ross foresaw a rate of growth from 500 students in 1965 to 9,000 by 1980 and ultimately to 20,000 or more. While realizing that York’s

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primary task was to soak up the students, he believed that it was not inconceivable that a small ‘residential college in Ontario pastoral country’ could be combined with an ‘in-the-city university which, while emphasizing liberal arts, would also offer professional courses for both commuting and residential students.’ The board listened to the president but demanded a firmer statement of long-term policy. On 20 June Ross reviewed three possible projects for the university that forecast its future in structural terms. First, he foresaw a small residential college for 1,000–1,500 selected students with a liberal arts program taught by a distinguished faculty in small classes and tutorials. If the Glendon campus were available, planning for such an institution could begin at once. Second, he wanted a large urban campus with faculties for arts and science, graduate studies, and professional schools, with some residences and ample parking for commuters. The campus could be ready by 1965 and have a population of 3,000 in 1970. Rounding out the plan was an evening college, which could be initiated at Glendon in 1961–62 with 2,000 students by 1970. After much discussion, the board approved these three proposals and on 13 October 1960 publicly announced that York would be composed of a small residential college, an evening college, and a multifaculty university that ultimately could serve 7,000 to 10,000 students. By the fall of 1960 York had selected the land at Keele and Steeles for the large campus. At the first meeting with the few faculty that fall, Ross reported that one of the commitments made in the prior few months was ‘that there shall be a limited student body, relatively slow growth, and that a good proportion of staff to students shall be maintained, but that in the long run the university must become fairly large.’ Just how large and how soon he did not say, nor did he know. As the projected numbers of potential university students kept growing, Claude Bissell became increasingly exasperated with York’s slow progress and particularly with the plans for Glendon which was to open in the fall of 1961. On 27 February 1961 Bissell suggested to Phillips that the Glendon issue must be resolved. ‘I had always thought of Glendon Hall as giving York a breathing space between its sojourn on this campus and its obtaining a large permanent campus. As you know, I have never liked the idea of the full development of Glendon Hall as a residential college. In terms of York’s immediate mission, it seemed to me elaborate and wasteful.’ Bissell suggested that Toronto should lease the campus to York for only a few years, and

From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

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he urged Phillips to approach ‘the many able and reasonable men on the York Board, and I am sure they must be having second thoughts now about the original plan.’ Whatever transpired, Glendon remained alive – though for decades its future was often in doubt. Bissell remained convinced that it was a hopelessly idealistic and expensive mistake – he did not see a Harvard at Glendon Hall. The York board’s large-campus planning committee, chaired by Ray Farquharson, recommended, and the board reluctantly approved on 12 December, a target enrolment of 4,000 by 1970. Ross prepared a submission to the provincial Advisory Committee on University Affairs (CUA). The submission submitted three possible scenarios. Proposition I, based on ‘a uniform, educationally and socially manageable growth-rate,’ envisioned student populations of 1,000 by 1970, 4,000 by 1978, and 10,000 in 1984: ‘All considerations – except those of total numbers from the view-point of public policy – favour this plan above all others.’ Proposition II was based on a population of 2,995 by 1970. Proposition III stated that York was prepared to ‘make a determined attempt‘ to accommodate a maximum of 4,000 students by 1970 ‘if Provincial policy so demands, and if it is recognized that only a series of most extra-ordinary safeguards can reduce the calculated risks to acceptable proportions.’ The safeguards were adequate financing ‘to develop in general a fine liberal arts university’ organized in small colleges with tutorial instruction, the retention of the small residential college at Glendon, an evening college, and, above all, adequate provision for the recruitment of senior academic and administrative staff and a good library. When Proposition III came before senate on 12 January 1962, with the required safeguards and essential conditions, Farquharson explained that the president and the board had reluctantly concluded that the ‘pressures were so great as to force York to accept the goals set forth in Proposition III.’ However, there ‘was a firm desire not to adopt a course that could leave York as merely the second choice to students not accepted elsewhere, and to avoid this, standards of excellence would have to be maintained from the outset.‘ The senators were sceptical about the feasibility and desirability of Proposition III, and there was considerable criticism of the decision to adopt the proposition. However, a motion that, with safeguards assured, the goal of 4,000 students by 1970 be accepted carried with one dissenting vote. Three days later Ross informed the board that senate had ‘strongly endorsed’ the target on the understanding that the safeguards be met.

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As the projected numbers of university students kept growing, with new estimates of the provincial need in 1970 of between 94,000 and 105,000 places, CUA asked the Committee of University Presidents to find a solution. When Murray Ross appeared before the subcommittee chaired by John Deutsch of Queen’s in May 1962, he found the members totally unsympathetic to Proposition III, which they regarded as ‘unrealistically low’ in view of the tremendous pressure of numbers in Metropolitan Toronto. Ross agreed that ‘if it was a matter of urgent public policy,’ he could accept a faster growth rate, provided there was adequate funding. The Committee of Presidents’ final report, Post-Secondary Education in Ontario, 1962–1970, recommended that York open the new campus in 1965, not 1966, and take 7,000, not 4,000, students by 1970. Forwarding the report to Robert Winters on 7 June, Ross wrote that ‘it seems quite clear that we should accelerate our plans and set a target to provide for at least 7000 students by 1970.’ When the recommendation finally reached senate in November 1962, Dean Bladen, the University of Toronto’s representative, short-circuited a lengthy discussion when he stated bluntly that ‘the greatest immediate problem is whether or not York University agreed to attempt to expand at the rate suggested … or whether some other institution must be established to do so.’ The die was cast. In his 29 November 1959 ‘Notes’ Murray Ross had argued that all considerations suggested that York should emphasize a program of liberal undergraduate education that ‘seeks to provide students with an opportunity to become acquainted with the great thinkers, the great ideas, and the great issues of civilization; to become aware of the nature of the present world; and to learn to think effectively on a wide range of subjects and in a great variety of situations.’ In May 1960, presumably in consultation with his friend John Seeley, who was among the first to join the faculty, he presented a curricular model to the board and the few faculty. ‘York University is committed to be a liberal arts university of the highest quality,’ the mission statement began, and ‘find its place in the tradition established by such top ranking institutions as Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard and Yale in which scholarship in the arts and natural sciences constitute[s] the central core of the university.’ The model required a common two-year liberal arts program in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences, followed by two-year programs in liberal arts, professional studies, or disciplinary honours studies.

From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

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At the first faculty meeting in September 1960, Ross stated that York was committed to provide ‘a liberal and general education.’ An interim curriculum committee chaired by George Tatham, with Seeley, Hugh McLean of English, and Lionel Rubinoff, a young lecturer in philosophy as participating secretary, was to generate a provisional curriculum to be instituted when York’s affiliation with the University of Toronto ended. By January 1961 they had agreed that the emphasis on general (breadth) and liberal (values) education should inspire the entire curriculum. They then designed two programs: honours in general education and honours in special education. All students would take a common two-year program of comprehensive courses in what would become the Divisions of Humanities, Social Sciences, and Natural Sciences, and skill courses in English, a foreign language, mathematics, and logic. The third year of general education was to be largely devoted to the study of a non-Western culture, and the fourth year to contemporary social problems, analysis, synthesis, and a thesis. Students in special education would begin their specialization with two courses in their second year and continue their concentration in their third and fourth years, during which there would also be courses on analysis and synthesis, and a thesis. When the proposals came before the faculty in the spring of 1961, reaction ranged from outright opposition through scepticism to a reluctant willingness to proceed. To suggestions that general education had been a failure in the United States, the committee solemnly replied that such was not the case. On 10 May Tatham announced that, because the president intended to approach the Ford Foundation for funding, it was necessary to reach agreement about the general structure of the curriculum and leave the details until later. With the addition of some Seeley and Ross rhetoric, the submission was sent to the Ford Foundation in the summer of 1961 with a request for a $1.2 million grant over seven years for the development of the unique York curriculum, a grant that ‘would have an immense multiplier effect creating in a reasonably short time a very sizeable effect both for Canada and the world. We will not say there is no better way to spend such a sum; we simply say we do not know of one.’ The president assured Clarence Faust, the Foundation’s vice-president, that their ‘hearts and enthusiasms’ were in the honours course in general education and they were ‘specially devoted to: (a) Defining more clearly and precisely … the role of the ‘generalist’ as over against the specialist (b) Our third year immersion of the student in an alien

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culture, so that emphatic insight can be had, but also ‘culture clash’ understood (c) Our fourth year treatment of select policy problems on terms of culture clash (or differences of perspective and value), focusing finally on the citizen’s essential role as citizen: the rule of adjudication.’ When they met Faust in New York, Murray recalled that he was sceptical that the faculty would support such an innovative program. Faust warned that ‘my own experience is that the specialized departmental person will resist programs of this kind. He wants to teach only his specialty. Your program requires that he broaden his interest and field of study, and this is a very real threat to him. Unless you build strong divisions of social sciences, humanities, and science, with budget support for the divisions rather than the departments, the project will collapse on you.’ Faust knew much more than the supplicants about ‘general education.’ A professor of English at Chicago, he had been appointed dean of the undergraduate college by Robert Hutchins with the mandate to abolish all electives in the college and devote its curriculum entirely to prescriptive general education. After battling against the departments and the disciplines from 1941 to 1945, Faust won at best a compromise victory and went off to Stanford and then to the Ford Foundation. Faust also knew that by the time York was pushing general education, it had collapsed or become diluted almost everywhere in the United States and had generally been written off as a well-meaning failure. In fact, at the very moment when Murray was pointing to Harvard as York’s model, the program launched with James Conant’s famous Red Book in 1945 had totally unravelled. By 1963 a special committee stated that ‘the program was becoming increasingly difficult to defend or even understand.’ At York, the attempt to force the faculty to accept the proposed curriculum had aroused intense criticism and suspicion. The president used the faculty council meeting of 12 October 1961 to put the faculty in its place. He stated that council had no authority and was only ‘an informal and unofficial advisory body, designed to facilitate communication with the President, Senate and Board of Governors,’ who had the ultimate authority. He welcomed ‘mature conflicts of opinion’ in council ‘if offered in the spirit of mutual respect’ and insisted that it was only with ‘good will’ and ‘some degree of discipline’ that York could reach its full potential. He particularly resented criticism of the Ford Foundation brief, as it was ‘his understanding that there had

From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

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been unanimous agreement of the curriculum in Council’– a strange conclusion as he had been present at the contentious and far from unanimous debates. Throughout the next year, curriculum committees were created, convened, disbanded, and reconstituted. The president appeared to have lost control of the planning. By the spring of 1962 there was nothing more than a paper outline of a curriculum and no agreement about what should be taught or how the curriculum should be administered. The relation of disciplinary departments to the three general education divisions was never clear, and no one could say whether teaching in the divisional courses would be mandatory for departmental appointments. Moreover, virtually nothing had been given proper legislative sanction. However, by the end of May rough outlines of courses in English, Spanish, French, Russian, math, and two in the Division of Humanities had been approved. Nothing had been set in the Division of Social Science. Somehow courses had to be created and, in desperation, one committee decided that members of the departments of political science and economics should prepare one course, ideally in the field of policy science, while the faculty in psychology and sociology prepare another based on the behavioural sciences. Although agreement – sometimes even civility or respect – proved difficult among colleagues in the latter fields, in November 1962 they produced a course titled The Nature of Man and His Development to be taught by faculty in psychology, sociology, and geography and another, Recent Trends in Western Civilization, linking economics, political science, and geography. By the spring of 1963 the content and staffing of the first course remained matters of contention. As chair-designate of the Division of Social Science, I invited the social scientists to a meeting at my home in the futile hope that suitable lubricants could help accommodate differences. Richard Pope, a Seeley appointment in sociology, bluntly reminded me that a university was an academy not a curriculum, and that he would not be persuaded or bullied. I replied that they should be ready to teach a course by 1 July or I would hire others who would. It was the beginning of a troubled life for the division. Meanwhile, another setback to the original curriculum, which offered only two honours degrees, came in April 1962 when Professor Irvine Pounder, a mathematician who joined York after his retirement from Toronto, questioned whether York could expect government funding for degree programs restricted to honours students. Dean

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Bladen of the University of Toronto raised the same question. Murray Ross attempted to deflect the substance of the issue by stating that a four-year program had been discussed with the province. But he neglected to add that at the CUA meetings there was general agreement that most of the expansion should be accommodated in the general three-year program and that the ‘new’ universities should offer only three-year degrees. Although York was not included among the ‘new’ institutions, Pounder was undoubtedly correct that the province would not fund a Princeton. At faculty council on 8 November 1962, Edgar McInnis moved that York introduce a three-year degree. The decision, he stated, ‘was taken with some regret but in realization of the needs of the community, the need for attracting financial support, and the factors involved in York’s commitment to become a mass university in the minimum period of time.’ After a long, heated debate about intellectual dilution, the motion passed 19–8. Reality had struck again. On 20 December 1962 senate approved the offering of a three-year BA, a four-year BA in general honours, and a four-year BA and BSc in specialized honours. Nothing had been done on the general honours program since the submission to Ford in the summer of 1961, but the approved calendar copy stated that such a program was ‘envisaged.’ Ross was concerned about the absence of detail, because of the promises made to the Ford Foundation. In October 1962 he had submitted an abbreviated version of the 1961 submission with a request for $125,000 to be matched privately. In his letter of 29 October awarding the grant, Clarence Faust gave his understanding of York’s commitments: The new curriculum, we understand, will involve a broad general education for all students during their first two college years, during the third year there will be a concentrated study of an alien culture by a major portion of the student body expected to be enrolled in a general education honors course, and during the fourth year students will direct their attention to the inter-disciplinary examination of a number of major problems of the modern world. We understand that the successful development of this new curriculum will depend to a significant degree on the autonomy and authority of the divisions of humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences in developing their own courses. We would expect, therefore, that the divisions teaching in these areas will, under your direction and that of the Senior

From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

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Council of the University, be free to engage their own faculty and plan and teach their own courses.

The letter troubled Ross. There was no honours program in general education and the divisional structure was not quite as Faust assumed. Murray was at his creative best in writing a suitable reply: You know, of course, that the new curriculum will not constitute the whole of our teaching programme and that at a later date we expect to initiate some professional schools of various kinds. While all students will in their first years do some work in general education, only certain ones will follow the special honour programme in general education which your grant will help to support. I am sure this was made clear in our earlier discussion but I thought I should mention it again. You know also that we will have a small undergraduate college as well as a large university. We hope the former will be highly experimental but almost inevitably the large university will be less flexible, although the new curriculum will be introduced there as well.

Faust was puzzled by the letter. ‘When you say you will have a small undergraduate college as well as a large university,’ he wrote on 12 November, ‘do you mean that York will be a large university with a small undergraduate student body only some of whom will follow the program in general education for which you asked support? We had assumed that your undergraduates would all be involved in the new program.’ Murray replied that ‘You are quite right in assuming that all our undergraduates will be involved in our new programme. You will remember that our presentation indicated that while all students would take essentially the same programme for the first two years of study (involving comprehensive courses in the humanities, the social sciences and the natural sciences) they would move into one of three streams after the first two years of study. One of these three steams provides two further years of study to secure an Honours degree in General Education.’ On 13 January 1963 Ross joyfully informed Faust that the board had accepted the grant with matching funds and the new curriculum had been approved. ‘Other Canadian universities, I need not add, look upon this development with some scepticism, but your support has been a tremendous help in strengthening the determination of our own Faculty members to introduce our new course in the next aca-

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demic session.’ Of great importance to general education were two new appointments: We have appointed Edward Pattullo (now Assistant Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science at Harvard University) to our staff as Associate Dean, to co-ordinate and strengthen our programme in General Education. Pattullo has a very deep interest in and commitment to General Education, and he comes to us highly recommended. (I enclose a copy of a confidential note about him, written by McGeorge Bundy.) Dr. John Saywell (considered by many to be the most brilliant young scholar in Canada and presently at the University of Toronto) has been appointed to our Faculty as Chairman of the Division of Social Science and Associate Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science. Saywell took his degree at Harvard, understands and supports General Education.

Pat Pattullo did think general education was a good thing (and was apparently unaware that it had flopped at Harvard). However, that was not why he came to York. I did take my doctorate at Harvard but knew absolutely nothing of its undergraduate program. It seemed that we were now hostages to the implementation and success of the program in general education about which neither of us knew anything. Pattullo and I took office just as what Murray Ross describes as the ‘Seeley incident’ broke in the press. There was no doubt that Seeley was the leader of the discontented faculty who had resigned, and of many who had not. The primary causes of the widespread malaise were structural and personal. Structurally, many regarded as acts of betrayal the rapid growth rate and ultimate size accepted by Murray and the board, with only grudging approval but no policy determination by senate. The curriculum was much less a total immersion in general education than some, including Seeley, had envisaged. For others, there was too much. The dream of becoming the Harvard of the north had been replaced by the prospect of York becoming an overflow station for other universities. Entwined with the structural was the personal: the administrative style and personal characteristics of the president. There was a widespread suspicion and even evidence of broken promises or commitments and of undue presidential manipulation of people and of the system. By the time of Murray’s lecture to the faculty in October 1961, faculty members were increasingly restless about the governance of

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the university. There was no established senate committee structure and no duly constituted faculty council, although both were central to the educational policy of the university. On 21 November Dennis Smith, a young political scientist and registrar, had written to Seeley that ‘I absolutely agree with you that there must be a charter government, and that some speed is necessary; also that there must be some provision for self-government by the faculty.’ Their demands for reform were effective. In April 1962 senate approved a statement asserting its own role in policy making and legislative jurisdiction over ‘educational policy’ or ‘strictly academic matters.’ Senate also determined that the ad hoc body acting as a faculty council be formally established as a senate committee composed of all full-time members of faculty. But structural changes did not quiet the discontent. As events unfolded during the 1962–63 academic year, it became evident that the president’s administrative and personal style was the source of much criticism and disillusionment, which was culminating in an attempt to force his resignation or dismissal. The 8 February 1963 issue of student newspaper Pro Tem was devoted almost entirely to vicious attacks on the president. A lengthy essay by ‘Descartes’ about truth and falsehood in the academy talked of ‘trust in a man’s word’ and the danger of verbal agreements that ‘may at times tempt an irresponsible man to get what he wants by verbal promises he does not consider binding at all but just as a means to an end.’ One article stated that the government was considering Ross for an appointment as ambassador to the Congo, where five previous ambassadors had ‘ended their careers rather abruptly. Their loss is attributed mainly to homicidal tendencies on the part of the Congolese ... It is understood that in academic circles there is strong feeling that Dr. Ross should accept this appointment.’ And on and on it went. Pro Tem poisoned the atmosphere at York. But it was not students who had produced that issue of the paper: the front page stated that to celebrate the paper’s first anniversary, the issue had been turned over to the faculty. A much distressed George Tatham, dean of students, immediately had confirmation of this from the editor. He later learned that Seeley had collected anonymous articles from the faculty and turned them over to the editor so that the students were not aware of who had written them. Contributing members of the faculty were sworn to secrecy over the authorships. By the early spring of 1963 a movement that can only be termed a conspiracy was underway to force Murray Ross out of office. George

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Tatham recalls that one evening the president of the students council and Seeley asked to come over to his home: So they both came in, and it emerged that they were having a discussion at Jack [Seeley]’s home and they had decided that the only way to save York University from disaster was to force the resignation of Murray Ross, and that, talking it over, the students and some of the faculty, I am not sure who was there, had agreed that this would be impossible as long as Bill Small [the comptroller] and I defended the President. They thought that as long as we were there, the bulk of the students and many of the faculty would not go to such extremes because of our support. But if either of us – if only one of us – were to stop or resign, then Murray would fall automatically. They had decided that I was the one who should hand in my resignation because of Murray’s behaviour.

Tatham told them the plan was ‘completely insane’ – that if Murray were forced out it would take a year to find another president and ‘we would be in a state of utter disaster.’ Undeterred, Seeley and the dissidents made other attempts to persuade senior faculty to join the revolt. Mort Appley, appointed chair of psychology in 1962, recently wrote to me that ‘I remember well the revolt led by Murray’s special friend and appointee to chair Sociology who asked me – among others – to join in the effort to remove Murray. I was not about to do that, although in retrospect it would undoubtedly have been in the University’s best interest – but I felt that the upstart York would be in disarray following such a move – and that we all had too much to do to keep the momentum going.’ The coup was not going to succeed, and in March 1963 Seeley informed Robert Winters, chair of the board, that the situation at York demanded an investigation by an impartial body. On 27 April he wrote to both Ross and Winters that the issue was not, as Murray contended, Seeley’s future responsibilities as a professor or administrator: The real issues, I believe, are whether a University President is or is not above the law that requires us all to adhere as far as we can, to our commitments, to represent fairly what we know. To refuse to ‘ use’ men as though they were pawns in a game of chess, and to put loyalty to the University above the momentary comforts of one of its officers ... Indeed our earliest differences on which all others are built had to do with just about nothing else. It is one thing to have legal power; it is another matter to use

From Illusions to Realities, 1959–1963

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it legitimately. A University President has a high obligation, I believe, to stay within the bounds of what is legal and legitimate.

Had Seeley been alone, the accusations could have been seen as a reflection of his personal differences with Murray. But Walter Coughlin, a professor of sociology who was leaving for the University of Virginia, wrote in similar vein to Winters on 18 April that it was ‘difficult to convey the disturbed climate in faculty and student circles engendered by broken promises, misrepresentation, suspicion, contradiction and manipulation on the part of the President almost constantly in day to day dealings with the faculty. I do not exaggerate when I state that as a direct result of these actions a good part of the faculty and many students as well no longer place any trust or confidence in the President.’ Dennis Smith, the young political scientist who had worked with Murray as registrar and chair of several committees for over a year, bluntly told Winters on 22 April that ‘my reason for leaving the University is the character of the president Murray G. Ross. In an established University, the President’s character is not so overwhelmingly decisive, but in a new University, it is the most significant factor in the University’s life. The President, by his academic sense, integrity, and manner is the person who above all creates the climate of the place.’ Murray Ross did not meet his standards. There was no doubt then – and later – that Ross manipulated faculty, staff, and committees, pitting them against each other, seeing ‘disloyalty’ behind disagreement. Ross’s demand for unquestioned loyalty became an issue. After a conversation with Murray, Neil Morrison, his appointment as dean of Atkinson College and one of the dissidents, wrote him on 17 June 1963: ‘I am sure you will understand in the light of our discussion about the nature of loyalty and concepts of responsible administrative behaviour generally in an academic setting, why I could not agree to give a blanket commitment in advance to accept uncritically and without question unknown decisions of policy which might be adopted in the future.’ Morrison agreed to cooperate as long as he was dean, but ‘such cooperation must be based on mutual trust and understanding.’ Morrison’s resignation was accepted by the board on 31 August 1963, Towards the end of June, Seeley and Morrison decided to go public, and on 28 June the afternoon papers had the story. Seeley emerged as the spokesperson and not only gave reporters his criticism of Ross but released all of the correspondence the departing faculty had sent to

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Ross and the board. Later he was quoted in the 2 July Globe and Mail as demanding an independent inquiry, for ‘when Truth speaks to Power it is usually crushed and may be so again.’ What York needs ‘is not merely new, but quite different leadership.’ The story broke when Robert Winters was in Europe. Contacted by the press before he also left for Europe, Ross said that only five faculty had left, ‘frustrated as the objectives have become more clearly defined’ and as the university ‘is not what in their dreams they thought it was.’ Reached in Europe, Winters said the letters were personal and confidential and that he was not contemplating an investigation: ‘this is a matter between the president and his staff.’ Rollo Earl was sharply critical of the dissidents: ‘I see Dr. Ross as a person seeking to develop a great university and he finds people yapping at his heels and sometimes he snaps at them.’ Later he issued a long typed statement, carried in the Globe and Mail on 29 June, flatly contradicting the dissidents. ‘There has been no faculty rebellion. There have been no acrimonious meetings in my experience. There have been no unresolved disagreements over salaries and positions that I know of ... I know of no personal attacks on individual members of the staff at open meetings.’ Earl’s statement led to a meeting of junior faculty at York, eight of whom wrote to him questioning or rejecting his statements and, on the whole, supporting the representations of the dissidents. Robert Winters returned on the 1 July weekend. Over the next few days among his interviews was half an hour with George Tatham ‘asking me details of what had happened and I told him as honestly and as fairly as I could that I thought that Murray was being attacked unfairly and that I had confidence that once the full issue was explored he would have a majority of the staff behind him.’ Winters called an emergency board meeting on 3 July and after a lengthy discussion the board approved a press release that Winters had prepared. The board attributed the resignations and disaffection to the unwillingness of some faculty to make adjustments to the rapid growth of the university. However, the board was satisfied that the president had ‘made every reasonable effort to reconcile what genuine grievances there had been’ and noted that Ross ‘has the confidence of the Board which regards all these problems as being within his ability to handle fairly and competently.’ As the Star reported, the board gave Ross ‘full support and slapped the wrists of dissenting professors.’ But what the press release did not reveal was that the board had also expressed ‘its

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desire that the President continue to be alert and take any reasonable action to resolve any issues which would impair harmonious relations between the faculty and the administration and thereby adversely affect the required development of the University.’ At a meeting on 9 September, Ross thanked the board for its ‘speedy action and generous support’ and was ‘hopeful that the thorough examination that had been made of the situation could be used to advantage in furthering the long range development of the University.’ He added that he learned much from it about the relationship between faculty, students, and administration. In his memoirs, Murray confessed that he had been an ‘overanxious parent,’ too ‘authoritative’ with younger faculty members, and too unwilling in both ‘theory and practice’ to accept the right of senate to determine academic policy. As Murray suggests, the revolt did have some positive effects. Mort Appley, who was to resign a few years later, reflected in a speech to the staff in the fall of 1963 that we all of us have had dreams of the ideal university – and when York and Murray Ross knocked on our doors we mistook him for the messenger from this private dream world and followed him eagerly to the promised land ... What I am saying in sum is that all of us came with unrealistic aspirations and expectations and [for some] the discrepancy between expectations and reality has simply been too great to overcome. We have had this year, the choice of abandoning the enterprise completely or of undertaking a sober self-examination in the light of our internal frictions. The latter is, for me, the only course that can be pursued. And, for me, a debt of appreciation must go to those whose dissent has kept open the possibility of change.

But there was also a pointed message to Murray: ‘We must be sure that the urgency of our task never precludes the free expression of alternatives or the privilege of changes in direction.’ Pat Pattullo came to York in 1963 and left in 1965 for reasons not unlike those of the 1963 dissidents. After he read an earlier version of this chapter, he wrote to me that both it and many of us were too hard on Murray Ross: Surely as one begins to put those early days into the perspective of the long sweep of history, Ross’s petty dishonesty, his exaggerations, his

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Someone to Teach Them over-statements, his Machiavellian machinations become a less important part of the story ... The old pirate was intent on building a major educational institution and was more than willing to sell his soul to do it. What’s more important he succeeded. Could he have done it had he been punctilious about not misleading anyone, careful to avoid promises he couldn’t keep, unwilling to bend the truth when it didn’t serve his purpose. I doubt it.

In their last meeting, surrounded by construction debris, Murray apparently said to Seeley, ‘I may be a liar and a bastard. I may be everything you people say I am. But I’m here like these buildings, and those who don’t like it better go.’ It turned out to be true. But whether Winters ever told Murray what he said to George Tatham at the end of their interview – ‘All right, we’ll stand behind Murray this time, but the next time it happens, he goes’ – may never be known.

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3 The ‘College System’: A Sacred Myth

The transition from Glendon to the York campus began in 1965, when the first main campus college opened and the first students arrived. The York campus was to be organized on the non-faculty ‘college system’ but no one knew what that was or would be, and opinion on its merits ranged from enthusiasm to scepticism to disbelief. Like many other founders of new universities in the 1960s, Murray Ross unhesitatingly pronounced that the college system would break down the inhumanity of a large organization, provide a sense of community, avoid the kind of student revolution that had begun at Berkeley a year earlier, and be the centre of student life outside the classroom for both residents and commuters. There were to be twelve colleges, each with a population of 1,000, of whom 250 would be in residence. There were also two autonomous faculty colleges not part of the ‘system’– Atkinson for part-time evening studies and Glendon – although the precise relations between them and the Faculty of Arts and Science was murky. When I arrived at York in the spring of 1963, I soon concluded that what little thought had been given to the real-life role of the nonfaculty colleges seemed to be wrong-headed. Apparently, Murray Ross had contemplated something like the Harvard house system, with the colleges housing the students for the first two years as they completed their program in general education, after which their spiritual homes would be the department. But George Tatham recalled that he ‘led the fight against that’ on the grounds that if the colleges were to provide part of the students’ education in extra-curricular activities ‘we needed third and fourth year students to give leadership to the college system, and that was the pattern that was eventually adopted.’ In many ways it was unfortunate that Ross’s plan was not adopted.

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What precisely would the colleges do? Some of the largely nonacademic planners apparently foresaw the colleges as miniature faculties, each with their handful of economists and historians. So too did Dean McHenry, the chancellor appointed to build the University of California at Santa Cruz on the college principle, with whom I argued the point in the fall of 1963. I could not imagine that model succeeding, certainly not with the speed and pattern of growth demanded of us. Moreover, in principle, I believed in the disciplinary structure of the faculty, with ample provision for interdisciplinary engagement in and through the divisions and across the disciplines. I could not see building a faculty on a college basis, and that had never been mentioned in my discussions with Ross. Had it been, I never would have taken the fork in the road. Some faculty might wish to be attached to a college as a Fellow and take their offices there, rather than with the department, and some courses might be college based. But we could not build a faculty for a large university without creating a critical mass of scholars and scholarly research, and a breadth of individual specialization. In short, York began with the ‘college system’ without any idea of what that was. The man in charge of making what he could of the college system was E.L. ‘Pat’ Pattullo, who had joined York as associate dean when I did. His father was a Canadian – his Uncle Duff was premier of British Columbia – but Pat had been born and brought up in the United States. Before the United States entered the Second World War, he had joined the American Field Service. He was sent to the Middle East as a volunteer ambulance driver and was among the last out of Tobruk with an ambulance of wounded when it fell for the second time. He then joined a regiment in Cairo, was commissioned in the Indian Army, and spent the rest of the war on the northwest frontier. Discharged in January 1947, and inspired by the teaching of Robert Hutchins about ‘general education,’ and the Great Books curriculum, he entered the University of Chicago as an undergrad. He left the doctoral program and was teaching a leaders’ training course for the Great Books Foundation when McGeorge Bundy asked him to come to Harvard as assistant dean. It was there Murray found him in the fall of 1962. Pat was a man of wide and deep reading, and great analytical and organizational skills. We quickly became good and lasting friends. Murray Ross liked Pat because he was interested in general education (although, as Pat later realized, James Conant’s first 1945 iteration

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of ‘gen ed’ had been written off as a failure by 1960). Presumably Murray also believed that he was knowledgeable about and sympathetic to the Harvard house system, although Pat did not believe the houses were in any way a central part of Harvard’s academic enterprise. Expansive as always, Murray told Pat that he was planning to replicate something like the house system with York’s colleges, insisting that money would be no object. Murray claimed that York’s program and structure would be a total innovation in Canadian education and, as Pat later said, ‘would bring the benighted country into the 20th century.’ Pat did not gain a clear understanding of Murray’s intentions after their first meeting. Pat expressed an interest in coming as dean but warned Murray that he should look for someone with the qualities he lacked – that is, ‘an established scholarly reputation and real understanding of the Canadian educational system.’ Pat thought that associate dean might be the ‘spot’ for him, but eventually wrote ‘I suspect I might be even more interested in being Principal of one of the Colleges, but I am too fuzzy about operational details to be certain of this.’ After further conversations, Murray offered him a position as associate dean on the understanding that ‘all being well,’ he would become head of one of the first colleges on the York campus and, Pat thought, conceivably become vice-president in charge of the college system. In the interim he was to help Dean Rollo Earl with budgeting and recruiting – a task that had been turned over to me – and supervise the development of general education while helping to develop ‘the administrative and academic policy that will guide the new colleges on the large campus.’ Although Pat had reservations, he and his wife liked the notion of living in Toronto, where there were many Pattullo relatives, and thought that the move might be the first step towards a small college presidency. He accepted and arrived in Toronto the day the Seeley affair hit the press. Before Pat arrived, he had an opportunity to talk about the college system with campus planners who had visited Harvard to assess and possibly revise the colleges. Soon after their visit, Pat warned Murray that after talking with the planners, he believed that the college system was in danger of being simply a planner’s folly: You take away the residential factor; cut out the luxury; centralize all library facilities and athletic plant; cluster dining rooms; and separate

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Someone to Teach Them the college building, residence and dining rooms so that the three no longer form a separate and self-continued unit – and what is left? Some control over curriculum and instruction. But how much and how effective when you have the faculty organized also in departments and divisions from headquarters off in buildings quite separate from any of the colleges? It is hard for me to see how the residences will be more than dormitories; the dining rooms more than quick lunch cafeterias; or the ‘college buildings’ more than classroom buildings. Neither the physical plant nor the power structure would seem to have any necessary tendency toward making the Colleges central to the lives of either teachers or students ... All I am saying is that a college is a college only to the extent that it is the effective agency in determining the scholarly, social and domestic arrangements within which its members live. At the moment I am not clear as to whether the York colleges will have the resources and instruments of control necessary to achieve this to any considerable degree.

Pat was prescient. When Pat arrived he had to work within the departmental structure, but he hoped to find or to create an academic role for the colleges. In January 1964 he circulated a memo outlining some of his ideas. I replied with a memo on 4 February, indicating my thinking about the possible role of the colleges: I sympathize very much with your dilemma in seeing the desirability of making the Colleges something more than institutions which look after the extra-curricular activities of the students, but in realizing the very real practical problems in the way of any other solution. I simply do not think that we can build a first-rate institution and attract good staff with the dissipation of resources involved in making every College an institution unto itself, or virtually so. I simply do not think this will work. There may be some staff who want to work in that atmosphere but my experience recruiting both here and at Toronto suggests that they will be very few and not of exceptionally high quality. I do believe, however, that we ought to consider over the next nine months the possibilities of locating some of the general education work in the Colleges. More important, however, are I think our long-term goals, and what has struck me very much as a possibility is your suggestion on page 3 that we might assign to a cluster of Houses some of the

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functions of a College. These Colleges would have a student enrolment of something like 3000 and 3000 could surely support, for purposes of undergraduate instruction, a fairly good sized arts department. These departments, of course, would be part of the main campus department though they might in time approximate a Glendon department in terms of their autonomy and specific curriculum. I think, however, that the Colleges will break down completely in the field of the sciences. The sciences are integrated from the undergraduate level through to the post-doctoral level and any attempt to teach science in an individual College would be wasteful of resources and man-power. Let me repeat, however, that the idea of a House cluster as composing a College might well be a long-term goal that we should keep in mind, though I would think, as you suggest, it is something we work towards through a process of evolution rather than attempt to legislate it into being.

In the summer of 1964 we hired John Conway who was to become an important actor in the college drama. Conway was a graduate of the University of British Columbia. During the Second World War he joined the Seaforth Highlanders and in May 1944 was the Captain of C Company as the Canadian forces attacked the Hitler line in one of their bloodiest battles of the war. His company pinned down by a machine gun post, Conway led the attack. When one of his men fumbled a grenade, Conway scooped it up but it exploded before he could throw it away. With his right hand torn off, Conway continued the attack and destroyed the machine gun position. He was awarded the Military Cross for this act of heroism, about which he never spoke. After the war, Conway entered Harvard and did his PhD in British history with David Owen, as did I a few years later. Conway never became a professor but on the recommendation of the history department received an annual appointment as a lecturer and taught in the general education program. Given Murray’s illusions about the Harvard house system as a model for York, Conway’s experience as the master of Leverett House was of far more importance than his academic accomplishments. By 1962 Conway had decided to leave Harvard, a decision made easier, perhaps, because the nature of tenure for house masters was changing. Masterships had been conceived as career posts, independent of instructional position, but Dean McGeorge Bundy wanted to replace masters such as Conway with tenured professors for a limited

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term. Whatever the reasons, ‘he was going to return to Canada, and I was sure he had made the right decision,’ wrote Jill Conway, the young Australian PhD candidate whom he had married in December 1962. ‘He was a British Tory at heart, in some important ways fundamentally unable to enter into an academic world where liberal rationalism was the received dogma. His interest in teaching, and in shaping the most creative environment for releasing the talents of the young, was far greater than his interest in being the typical research scholar.’ Bill Kilbourn, the humanities chair, knew Conway from his own days at Harvard, as did Pat Pattullo, who had attended his wedding. I knew him slightly and remember him arriving unannounced at my PhD orals. Pattullo knew that Conway had resigned and was probably interested in returning to Canada. Kilbourn wanted him in the Division of Humanities as a professor, a request that made it easier for me to sanction the appointment because I would not have appointed him as a full professor in history. Ross was keen to have any man with a Harvard pedigree, particularly an experienced house master who might be master of the second college. John and Jill were sojourning at Oxford when I wrote to him in September 1963 to ask whether he would be interested in York. He replied that he would be and was happy to come to Toronto for a talk: ‘I have discussed York with Bill Kilbourn and Pat Pattullo,’ he wrote. ‘I find the idea of a new university challenging. In fact it seems to me that the recent expansion of higher education in Canada is the most important development in the country during this century. It indicates a new intellectual vitality which is most promising. I would like to contribute to this development because of my own deep convictions about the role Canada is to play in the world in the next generation.’ Following a convivial visit, John accepted the offer in humanities and as master-designate of one of the early colleges, and his appointment was approved by the board in December 1963. Later that month during a recruiting visit to London, I invited them down from Oxford for a pleasant lunch. We discussed the Humanities Division and how the colleges might be made distinctive, but we did not discuss what was to be one of his main concerns – the academic structure of the university and the colleges. Nor was it clear to me then that John had a somewhat grandiose perception of the role and status of the college masters, a misconception that must have come from Murray.

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An exchange of letters between Pattullo and Conway in December 1963 reveals their very different view about the roles of the colleges and the masters. In a letter to Conway of 5 December 1963, Pattullo stated that he had accepted the departmental organization of the faculty as a given and wanted to clarify the status of the colleges: One of the reasons I am inclined to think that it would be good for us to start talking about ‘Houses’ and ‘Associates’ rather than Colleges and Principals is because both of the latter terms denote a degree of autonomy that I doubt will be possible in our situation. I think it is misleading to talk about a ‘College’ unless the institution referred to has at least some curricular control and some control over staff recruitment and promotions. We are committed now to a departmental structure here and, much as I regret the rigidities which tend to creep in with this form of academic organization, I still believe that we must have it if we are to develop a university worthy of the name.

Conway took ‘immediate issue’ with the policy and urged Pat to ‘reconsider’: Here again I think we just profit from Harvard’s experience. It is difficult, next to impossible, to spell out in a letter why I feel it so very unwise to make this concession in principle. For one thing it is making a decision about problems that have not yet arisen. We had problems in the Houses at Harvard with difficult departmental chairmen but the great majority of faculty members wished to cooperate … Had we a free field we would have done all sorts of things to integrate undergraduate education with the Houses. But we were boxed in by a fait accompli. How we would have welcomed the opportunity to redo the operation if we could. This is why I feel that it is of the greatest importance to use the term ‘College’ rather than ‘House.’

Conway saw the colleges as miniature faculties, and they and the masters as key players in the academic and intellectual development of York. He had written to Pat in February 1964 to say ‘with complete conviction’ that York ‘must be the creation of a civilized community. The allocation of funds, the assessment of teaching loads must be made in terms of this objective. This is the great and primary importance of the Colleges. Colleges were started at Oxford and Cam-

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bridge and everywhere else in Europe as communities of men who were dedicated to learning and to scholarship, not as undergraduate dormitories.’ In October 1964 Murray decided to make Pat the vice-president of university affairs with particular responsibility for the colleges. They had already agreed that Pat would let Conway take the first college – and Pat himself one later – and Pat and I agreed that he would remain associate dean to help facilitate the college–faculty relationship. Murray informed Conway in the fall of the impending appointment, which he intended to announce in January 1965. ‘He will be the officer to whom the Masters of the various colleges and the Registrar will report ... I think you share my respect for Pat’s ability and I am sure you will enjoy working with him. If there are matters you wish to discuss with me, or if I can be of any help to you at any time, I hope very much that you will let me know.’ In public at least, Conway did not protest the appointment despite their vastly different views of the role of the college. He had, however, publicly stated that he would never report to an academic administrator who lacked the proper academic qualifications. By the spring of 1965 Pattullo had prepared a wise and comprehensive document on the organization and administration of the colleges, which attempted to maximize their academic role within a faculty structure: departments would be encouraged to decentralize their activities when possible; departments and divisions would have the ‘the duty of ensuring the maximum amount of “in-College” instruction which is consistent with its other necessity’; and the first-year students’ advisor would be a college fellow. There were other broader provisions, or a wish list, to which I had also agreed: Each College will be responsible for reporting annually to the Council of each Faculty on the strengths and weaknesses of that Faculty’s instructional programs as they affect students within the College. The reports would be simply advisory and would depend for their authority on the wisdom and persuasiveness on their contents. It should be clear that under this structure instructional units of the several Faculties are free, and indeed to be encouraged, as time and circumstances permit, to delegate considerable powers to sub-groups within the individual Colleges. Thus, the several members of the Department of English of the Faculty of Arts and Science, in a given College,

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might be assigned the task of designing and mounting the required English course for students in that College, Their course might be entirely different from one offered by a corresponding group in a neighbouring College. So long as both were approved by the Department and Faculty as satisfying the English requirement there would be no reason to insist that the difference must be resolved.

It’s worth noting that I felt the same could work for other courses in the general education program in the first two years. By the time Pat’s report was circulated on 4 May 1965, he was running into heavy weather in his relations with both Murray and Conway. In senate Pat had opposed the president on the location of the Institute of Behavioural Research, which Mort Appley, the chair of the Department of Psychology, had established: Murray wanted it to be autonomous while Pat believed that it should be subject to decanal control. In a 29 March memo to Pat, which was never sent, Murray made it clear that he expected ‘loyalty’ from his senior staff. ‘While I do not think you were attacking me, or the Office of the President, some people did think so and have spoken to me about it. You and I may have disagreements, but we must not air these in Senate, nor allow people to think the administration is sharply divided on fundamental issues.’ Then in July Murray asked Pat to talk to the board about his plans for the colleges – a board that was already concerned about the capital and operating costs of the colleges and had agreed to the colleges only if they could be built and operated on the same budget as the customary residential system. As Pat recalled in a letter to me: Ever the naïf, I cheerfully assured them that such a scheme must be vastly more expensive than the traditional American-style dormitory system. Shee-it, man! Murray had been telling them all along it would be cheaper, or at least no more expensive. Bob Winters grew apoplectic before my eyes, and it was a question of whether he or Murray would first fall to the floor. I don’t know whether I imagined they’d ante up more money for the Colleges if they knew the truth, or whether I was just giving Murray one in the eye for luring me up under false fiscal promises. Anyway the scales fell from my eyes, and I realized that the picture that Murray had painted, in which expense seemed no object, had been misleading ... so I began to conclude that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong notions. (In fact, I didn’t much believe you could do the Col-

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Someone to Teach Them leges is a meaningful way at all in the North American context, so in some sense I’d been misleading Ross, as much as he me.)

Winters, the board chair, was not pleased. As he wrote the president, ‘You will recall that when Dean Pattullo appeared before the Board recently he raised questions as to the economic feasibility of the College system on which we are embarked at York University and the Board asked that this matter be reviewed before we get further entrenched. I would like to discuss this matter with you preparatory to having it raised at the next Board meeting.’ Forwarding the letter to Pat on 9 July, Murray stated that he hoped Pat could ‘produce some figures on capital and operating costs that will be satisfactory.’ If Pattullo was having difficulties with Ross, his breaking point with York was due to his relations with John Conway. The Conways had arrived in Toronto in July 1964 and, as Jill wrote, ‘were greeted with hospitality and high spirits … by the old Toronto world John knew from his army days. We had scarcely unpacked our bags when we were invited to the graceful Rosedale home of Dorrie and Edward Dunlop [a Tory MLA who had been blinded by a wartime explosion], to a large gathering which mixed together their broad interest in politics, journalism, and medicine.’ They settled in a Rosedale apartment and soon became part of the Rosedale establishment, close to Toronto wealth and power, usually of the Tory kind. John joined the humanities division and Jill began teaching in Toronto’s history department, where she had received an appointment as a temporary lecturer. As I was to remain at Glendon much of the time until 1966, when the transition of York to the main campus was virtually complete, Pat had thought that Conway might, under his guidance and my informal agreement, take on certain quasi-decanal roles on the York campus. By November 1964, however, Pat realized that would be unwise. Conway appeared not to be much engaged in planning for the first college, of which he was to be the master. With the college to open in the fall of 1965, by December 1964 Pattullo decided the time had come to raise the issue with Conway. ‘What I recall,’ Pat wrote to me years later, is going to John’s office one morning to tell him he really had to get cracking and do some planning about the College he was to lead – time was getting short. He leaned back in his chair, fixed me with a bleary eye (I realized only later that he was drunk as a skunk), and launched into a

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tirade about being surrounded, by drunken low-life such as he’d never encountered in his life before, gross, stupid, disgusting, unrefined, Saywell and Pattullo competing to be the worst among a disgusting pack of ignoramuses, while Conway himself struggled to bring some sense of civility and sophistication into this rude outpost that was York, while constantly embarrassed in front of his guests by these peasants with whom he had to work. His peroration included a final decision to have nothing to do with me: the notion that I should in any way be his superior or instruct him as to his duties being beyond bearing. Well, John, says I, that rather puts the cat amongst the chickens given my understanding of our respective duties.*

The next day Pat sent Ross some correspondence with Conway and admitted in a handwritten note that ‘I have certainly used more than one four letter word in front of his wife. I am sorry but I had no idea she found this offensive. Why John did not caution me after the first offense I do not understand. I also insulted Donald Fleming, Chairman of History at Harvard [Jill’s supervisor] at the Conway house. That is simply old habit. Fleming & I have been insulting each other for years – but neither of us seems to mind.’ Accompanying the note was a formal letter to the president: For some time, as you know, I have sensed that my relationship with John Conway was not developing well. I had hoped that it was simply a question of time and the always difficult process of orientation to a new situation. I discover that this is not the case. Since Professor Conway’s arrival in Toronto, apparently, I have unintentionally – but repeatedly and in a variety of ways – acted and spoken in a manner which he feels to be insulting and bullying. He finds my person and behaviour wholly objectionable and it is out of the question that we should work together in any way, shape or form. I am very sorry – and surprised beyond stating – that this should be the case. Given the circumstances I have no choice but to recommend that * In fairness to Conway, in addition to being a heavy drinker he suffered from severe manic depression, which was not diagnosed until later but which, in late December 1965, was to place him in the hospital where he was subjected to electroshock therapy for three months.

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Someone to Teach Them Professor Conway’s appointment as Master of the first College on the York campus, which was to have been effective as of 1 July 1965, be withdrawn.

Pat and Murray met a week later. Murray rejected his recommendation and stated that since both men were essential to York some ‘grey’ solution had to be found. Pat had wisely begun to write an aidemémoire after every meeting with Murray, and of this meeting he wrote: ‘Quite unsatisfactory conversation. What the boss intends to do – who he would back – if Conway refuses to work under Pattullo, I am damned if know. If I am to have no power or authority vis-à-vis the Master I don’t see how I can function as veep.’ In a letter to Murray after the meeting, Pat stated that if no solution was possible he was prepared to resign as vice-president and remain as associate dean of the faculty. After the Christmas holidays and a talk with Conway, Murray suggested they do nothing for a month or two because ‘to act at all might be to push John into taking some action which would be embarrassing to the University.’ Rejecting that proposal because time was running out, Pat suggested that they rewrite the administrative organization, reducing the authority of the vice-president as far as Conway’s college was concerned. If Murray did not make it explicit whom he would back, he implied as much when he told Pat that Conway ‘is very solidly dug in with members of the Board and the powers that be in Toronto.’ As the charade of the possible reorganization continued, Murray made matters more explicit. As Pat noted after the meeting, ‘if it came to a showdown the Board would support Conway rather than me and (if I understood the implication correctly) would support Conway rather than MGR. In a word, Conway has achieved so powerful a position in York that he is not subject to the usual administrative controls.’ Pat agreed to a structure that accommodated Conway’s demands, but as he wrote in his aide-mémoire of 15 April: ‘The President now insists that he [Conway] report to me, and that I am wholly responsible for what goes on in the College ... For the umpteenth time I suggested to the President that he was trying to hold me responsible for matters in which he refused to give me any authority and that he couldn’t have it both ways. Unfortunately he wants to have it both ways.’ Although Pat continued to work diligently on the colleges well into the summer, fighting for masters’ housing and finding new masters,

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he realized that with Conway on a loose rein his position was impossible. As a result when Franklin Ford, the new dean at Harvard, called and asked if he would consider returning to Harvard as director of the new centre for the behavioural sciences, Pat had probably made up his mind before his wife’s comment that Harvard would not offer him a job three times. ‘Well, not until we pack up and sell the house,’ he told Ford. On 19 July he submitted his resignation as gently as possible, but the letter had a familiar ring: I am resigning, first, because I wish to return to New England and am attracted by the possibilities of the new position which awaits me there. Second, however, I am moved to leave York because I feel that you and I have failed after two years to achieve the working relationship which is essential, given my position and yours, within the institution. We have too often and on matters too important, misunderstood one another and realized, after the fact, that we placed different constructions on conversations and apparent agreements. You will remember my dismay at discovering that the University did, indeed, have a commitment which limited the Senate’s freedom of action vis-à-vis the General Honours program. I thought I had been assured that this was not the case. And then, of course, you know that I have been surprised at the interpretation you now place on our agreement of last January concerning my responsibilities in relationship to those of the Master of Founders College.

And finally, Pat wrote, ‘I explained to you several weeks ago that I interpreted the small salary increment recommended for me for this next year as a sign of your lack of satisfaction with my performance. Your failure to reconsider has confirmed me in my suspicion.’ Pat sent a copy of this letter to me, following many long chats we had had about his future. I would have preferred, if he resigned as vice-president, that he remain as associate dean with major responsibilities for general education and particularly the faculty–college relationship. But Harvard offered a different future far from Conway and Ross. With Pat’s departure, Conway noted derisively that ‘he had gone to be superintendent of a building.’ But the feeling among the faculty was one of a great loss, best expressed by John Yolton, chair of philosophy, who hoped that Pat’s resignation was ‘not a symptom, though nagging thoughts suggest it may be.’ Pat had always brought ‘sense and sanity into discussions,’ he had breached any division between

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administration and faculty, and had planned and talked with the faculty in mind. Above all, Yolton wrote, ‘the spirit and liveliness of your presence combined with your wisdom to bring a quite unique and, in my mind, an invaluable and irreplaceable ingredient in the growth of York.’ In his letter to Murray in March 1963, Pat had written that ‘because we are trying to build something new and because success finally depends on thousands of small decisions made throughout the University, it is more important that the whole community – from department head to clerk – grasp the sprit of the undertaking and have a sense of the direction in which we are moving.’ Two years later, in a report to Murray not long before he left, he remained the realistic but hopeful advocate of a meaningful college system: We are deliberately seeking to create a situation in which students will find the centre of their lives at Glendon or Founders, or at Vanier, Winters or McLaughlin College and identify, socially and emotionally, with the College first, and the University only secondarily. This is a subtle, delicate and difficult undertaking, which is only partly subject to planning and, in its more important aspects, must be realized by a process of evolution. It is clear also that the objective will be achieved only if all concerned are willing to deliberately inhibit the natural thrust to centralization. At every stage of growth the faculty members, the administration and the students will be confronted with problems which again pose the dilemma of centralization versus decentralization. The college system will succeed only if each group at such times consistently reaffirms the conviction which led to the decision to give up certain advantages of centralization in order to preserve within a large community some of the advantages of a small community.

When Murray made his political decision and Pat left, there was no one at York who took his place at the centre to ‘grasp the spirit of the undertaking and have a sense of the direction in which we are moving.’ As Murray wrote in his memoirs, the colleges never ‘fulfilled the missions we had for them. The loss of Edward Pattullo in our early days now seems of the greatest import.’ The colleges remained one of York’s most serious problems and the subject of innumerable committees, commissions, and task forces from the late 1960s to the present.

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In a submission to one of the first such committees, in 1968, John Conway stated that he considered the colleges a smashing success and, with a salvo that was aimed largely at me, I suspect, said, ‘It is time the senior officers of the university recognized this and ceased making public pronouncements which indicate they believe the success of the colleges is still in doubt. Such statements are excellent examples of the lack of that firm support which the colleges require and which the masters were encouraged to expect when they took on their appointments.’ Despite Conway’s confidence, John Yolton’s submission to the same committee describing the college system as a ‘noble failure’ was probably more indicative of faculty and certainly of student opinion. Student opinion was perhaps best expressed in an article by Paul Axelrod in Excalibur (25 February 1971) rebutting a gushy article in Toronto Life (October 1970) ‘How York Faces Love, Life and the Real World’: I remember when representatives from York came to my former high school and argued convincingly that York unlike any other institution in North America (and perhaps the world) had conquered the demon of the Multiversity – we would not be attending the impersonal university where students never communicate with their professors; where lectures are huge and boring; and where course content is irrelevant and unstimulating – the possibility of encountering such an existence would be eliminated through the institution of the sacrosanct college system ... Of course, Toronto Life praised this infamous drawing card as one of York’s prized possessions, and so in 1971, when the student population rapidly approaches 10,000, where lecture halls have been built to seat over 500 people, enrolled in overcrowded courses, and where some students’ only contact with their college is often nothing more than depositing an empty coffee cup on a common room floor, the myth prevails.

My own feelings were expressed in an intemperate and bitter letter to President Slater, Murray Ross’s replacement, in the summer of 1972, when we were facing a budget crisis and the possible termination of faculty: A last memo before I leave which … perhaps relieves my growing impatience and frustration about what I see around me. When we start to be concerned about budget I suggest you look at the Colleges, the

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Someone to Teach Them big glossy illustrated tutorial handbooks, etc. like Calumets’s and one for each college, and newspapers for each college and God knows what else that surely represents a fantastic drain upon the resources of the University. I notice, also, that over 500 of the available rooms have not yet been taken. I have discussed this with many students who are attempting to get into Grad residence, looking for apartments, willing to camp in tents etc. If the College Masters would spend a little more time being College Masters and a little less time being embryonic deans, presidents, publishers – worry more about making the colleges more hospitable places than enjoying their ego trips – perhaps they might be salvageable. I think the central administration and the Council of Masters might consider some radical solutions such as having a college restricted, or several colleges restricted, to students who want to work, who are willing to obey certain rules which permit everyone to work such as noise levels, which, apparently, with the paper-thin walls, is one reason why students do not want to live in – where no Green Bush Inn or other rock band pubs can destroy the privacy of students attempting to work etc. While I usually keep quiet about the Colleges, my own feeling which, I confess, I barely disguise, is that they are the centre of everything that is anti-intellectual and anti-academic on the campus.

Ironically, at the request of yet another York president, Harry Arthurs, I agreed to be a member of a three-person commission in 1987 to see what might be done with the colleges – about the sixth such study. At that time, I had not been involved deeply – sometimes not at all – in university life for fifteen years, and what I heard seemed distressingly familiar. In an attempt to give the colleges some raison d’etre, the commission recommended that each college take on or develop a ‘special identity’ – one in public affairs, one in international relations, one in arts and letter, for example. We suggested that two colleges be devoted to the entering class, and one to women, as well as the usual plea for greater college participation in the work of the faculties and life of the university. Some colleges were developing in that direction, and others continued to do so. Vanier became home to religious studies and other humanities faculty. Founders housed African studies and Latin American and Caribbean studies. Stong became the centre of life for the English Department, and Bethune for much of physical education.

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Winters had several fine arts departments and was seen as a fine arts college. But for most students and faculty, the colleges as a system remained peripheral to the life of the university. In November 2006 yet another high-powered task force finished its report on the colleges. As I read the twenty-eight recommendations I could not see a brighter future for the colleges, but only the latest salvage operation. And as I write in 2007, the Faculty of Education is to be headquartered in Winters College although some space will be reserved for the master, and no special arrangements apparently will exist for housing education students. Looking back, the college system on the York campus was almost dead at birth. The man who might have given it life was Pat Pattullo. But in 1965 Murray Ross made a critical decision based not on his concern for the college system but his realization that if push came to shove the board of governors would support Conway not Pattullo, and perhaps even Conway not Murray Ross. Now the college system is not even the sacred myth it was for a long time. Years later, recalling his meeting with the board on the colleges, Pat wrote me that he ‘didn’t much believe you could do the Colleges in a meaningful way at all in the North American context.’ A betterplanned and -financed college system in a rural setting at Santa Cruz failed, where half of the 13,000 undergraduates now live in the ten colleges. Within a few years, even before the retirement of Dean McHenry, the economists in the various colleges got together as a ‘board‘ and soon had control over university-wide curriculum and appointments, as did all the disciplines. Today the colleges provide housing and dining services and have almost no academic role other than advising students, as one 2003 report on the colleges stated, ‘outside their majors.’ As at York, frequent task forces have attempted to find a role for the colleges. To the suggestion that colleges might be administered by academic divisions, the 2003 Santa Cruz report stated: ‘We are concerned that the colleges would naturally face competition for resources with the academic and research programs of the division and its departments, particularly in times of stress, and come out on the short end.’ Closer to home, even at the University of Toronto, where the colleges had preceded the university, the colleges had become less important in the life of the students by the 1960s. In 1974 much of their academic role was taken over by university departments, and the colleges were encouraged to develop their own unique

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courses and programs. The foreign literature departments are now housed in Victoria and St. Michael’s. It probably fair to say that even the Toronto colleges are not a significant part in the lives of most students other than those in residence. I think Pat Pattullo was right – particularly in an urban setting where most students were commuters – but it was Murray Ross who made the fateful decision not to let him try.

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4 ‘General Education’: Flawed Design, Rich Legacy

As I look back on the establishment and growth of the Faculty of Arts at York, I am surprised and somewhat dismayed at the conventionality of the departments. Although freed from the many constraints in established universities, the faculty seemed governed by the boundaries and content of their disciplines and seldom embarked on their own unique intellectual or pedagogical adventures. There were, of course, the expected ideological and methodological arguments in most departments, which seemed desperately important and were divisive at the time, but they differed little from debates in older institutions. The significant or lasting innovations at York were the consequences of the evolution of what began as the ‘general education’ program. As a program gen. ed. disappeared, but in so doing it left a rich legacy. The Divisions of Humanities and Social Science became the home not only of their own inter- and multi-disciplinary courses and programs but provided a home for a wide variety of inter- and multi-departmental programs that could not have been created so easily or in such abundance if the departments had almost monopolistic control of the curriculum. The existence of the interdisciplinary structures and programs in the Faculty of Arts inevitably influenced other faculties, some of which were created under our auspices. In the next century, the trend was to lead to the immodest branding of York as the ‘innovative’ and ‘interdisciplinary’ university. Murray Ross believed that ‘general education’ would be York’s unique contribution to higher education in Canada. By the time it was introduced at York, many American universities, after long, systematic, and often sympathetic thought about the pedagogical or epistemological

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objectives of general education, had concluded that their own experiments were undesirable or unworkable. The York program, introduced in the fall of 1963 to the first actual York students, was in many ways quite unremarkable despite the controversy and anguish over its birth. In their first year, students were required to take one course in each of the divisions and two of English, a language other than English, and Modes of Reasoning. In the second year, students were required to take one course in a division, two departmental courses, and two additional courses. As the major component of the first two years, gen. ed. did introduce students to broader approaches to or aspects of knowledge that they may not have otherwise experienced. The curriculum prevented immediate specialization, but, as implemented, it appeared to me to have had no overall and integrated sound foundations or purposes, either as a whole or within its parts. In his memoirs, The Way Must Be Tried, Murray Ross wrote that ‘it was essential that Saywell approve and support the program of general education. It was not something that immediately impressed or attracted him. He agreed, however, to support it. Never did he deviate from this agreement, even though it might have suited his inclination or his convenience to do so. The later development of this program into a very imaginative and attractive curriculum for first year students must be attributed largely to him.’ Whether gen. ed. was an imaginative first-year curriculum or a failure was the subject of constant debate at York. It was not surprising that John Yolton, the philosophy chair, observed in 1972 that ‘seldom has a curriculum been subjected to so much self-criticism, discussion, debate and evaluation.’ However, as surveys indicated, gen. ed. was not one of York’s recruiting attractions and was not enormously popular among first-year students. In any case, for a decade my role in general education was largely reactive and at times one of damage control. At the same time I firmly believed in education that was flexible. I was appalled at the University of Toronto’s inflexible early specialization, which meant that after the second year, if not the first, students were frozen in their selection of a degree program and limited in the selection of options. Worse, neither the honours or ordinary (three-year pass arts) student could move horizontally: a third-year passing honours student could not graduate with a pass degree, and a straight-A second-year three-year degree student could not transfer to honours without starting all over again. Wisely, but only after long and bitterly contentious debate, the honours system was abolished in 1969 and all students are now treated the same.

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For me, Toronto would have been a disastrous educational undergraduate experience. Until as an undergraduate I encountered Paradise Regained and Cotton Mather, I had contemplated a minor in English. Later I was going to tackle double honours in economics and history or political science until I came face to face with statistics. So in the end I took double honours in history and political science with a minor in economics. In my own teaching I tried to take a multidisciplinary approach. One of the rewards was the denunciation of my course The Problems of Canadian Viability by the student radicals at York for not adopting their rigid ideological answer that capitalism-imperialism was the only problem! In short, although I supported the ‘idea’ of a ‘general’ or multidisciplinary education, experience demonstrated that York’s gen. ed. needed constant re-examination. The first opportunity to examine the program came in January 1964, when the new curriculum was only four months old. Murray Ross planned to write Clarence Faust of the Ford Foundation to request another grant and asked me to write a report on the great success of gen. ed. to include in his letter. I asked all the course directors to provide a frank appraisal of their courses, indicating their problems and prospects. I sent the reports to Murray as an appendix to my own analysis. The truth was that, in general, the gen. ed. program was nothing to write to Faust about. The Roots of Western Civilization in humanities was a straightforward cultural history course given by specialists in history, classics, and literature. Social Science II on Recent Trends in Western Civilization was a set of conventional mini-courses given by the Departments of Economics, Political Science, and Geography in separate blocks of lectures. All participating faculty attended the lectures and all gave tutorials. There was little faculty or student complaint about either. Social Science I, Man in Nature and Society, was the product of open and profound disagreement among the disciplines (and those forced to teach in it – largely by my decree – in the spring). It had been thrown together mainly by sociologist Richard Pope and essentially was a medley of discrete mini-courses in psychology, anthropology, sociology, and geography, with each lecturer giving an autonomous set of lectures and tutorials. Faculty were expected to attend all the lectures, but on more than one occasion several stormed into my office, stating they would never subject themselves to the embarrassment of another lecture by Pope. The Division of Natural Science had not found a suitable approach to level or content for arts

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students. Modes of Reasoning had become two courses: more or less traditional philosophy in the fall and ‘Numbers’ in the spring. After a few weeks it was clear that the course was above the students’ heads. The report that I sent to Murray was not very positive, but I also added some thoughts about the future, which as time passed were to govern my own thinking: From observing the experiment this year I think some lines seem fairly clear. In the first place, I think the Common Course programme, that is courses common for all students (to the extent that is now true), will remain here at Glendon. I do not think, however, that it will work on the new campus. I think that for both practical and pedagogical reasons we will move towards diversity without giving up the principle of a student taking courses that are either inter-disciplinary or multi-disciplinary, that deal with problems rather than periods, and where they are forced to extend themselves beyond the range of the traditional subjects and the traditional approaches that characterized their high school education. I would suspect that we might see in both the Social Sciences and Humanities a group of basic or key courses from which the student would select one; and, as we reach our full size, another group of six or seven or eight rather narrower courses in the second year where the student could select a particular theme or kind of problem which interested him.

I suggested that the fewer the people in a course the better, and even in some ways that the ideal would be a course taught by an individual of broad and interdisciplinary interests: ‘If a good professor cannot do this, heaven forbid our attempts to make the indifferent freshmen do it ... In the last analysis, by their very nature, these General Education courses of ours will work if there are gifted and imaginative teachers on the platform. No matter how much planning has gone into them, they will fail if the staff lacks the enthusiasm and flair.’ The other matter that concerned Murray was the status of the proposed four-year honours degree in general education (mentioned in chapter 2), which, he had told Faust, had the ‘hearts and enthusiasm of most of us.’ The truth was that although the program in alien culture–contemporary problems was envisaged and listed in the calendar, it did not exist. In November 1963 a subcommittee of the Committee on Undergraduate Studies (CUS) under Pat Pattullo brought to council and later to senate a recommendation that a general honours degree be established ‘in order to make it easier to carry on continuing

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experiments with inter-disciplinary and non-departmental work in the upper class curriculum’ not available to students in the specialized honour stream. Beyond the six-course gen. ed. requirements, however, the electives had to be chosen so that the student would have a disciplinary major. In December council approved a Pattullo motion that the program in alien culture–contemporary problems ‘will relate only to the Glendon Hall campus and shall in no way commit the University to the programme on the large campus.’ Ultimately and fortunately, the general honours degree remained as an alternative to a specialized or combined honours degree, but the degree of general honours in general education died stillborn. So too did the request for another grant. The experience with Murray and the Ford grant convinced me that general education, of whatever stripe, needed better coordination and quality control. In April 1964 we established a gen. ed. subcommittee of CUS with Pattullo as chair. The first recommendation, at the urging of the mathematicians, was to add two math options in the Modes of Reasoning category. In the spring of 1966, after Pattullo had left York, CUS examined the appropriateness of compulsory English and other languages in the program, and in the fall council approved the recommendation that they should exist only as options. Piece by piece the original gen. ed. curriculum was being altered or dismantled. CUS also accepted my argument that we could secure better results by a reorganization of the language and literature departments. I had always thought that basic language training could be done most effectively by specialists in applied linguistics and by native speakers, not by those whose interests and talents lay mainly in the study of literature. I also believed that the Department of Modern Languages, an unhappy and divisive department, should be divided into two separate departments, of French and foreign literature. With the concurrence of CUS, I then proposed the division of the department and the creation of the linguistics and language-training program. The reorganization was legislated and in place for the 1967–68 session. We were fortunate in persuading Michael Kay, a speaker of many languages and a dedicated language teacher, to leave his Glendon–Atkinson appointment and join us an associate professor of languages and linguistics and director of the program. We provided ample resources for the establishment of a modern and efficient language lab and the recruitment of specialized faculty. For the 1968–69 term there were sev-

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enteen faculty in the program, some of them seconded from the literature departments and the Division of Humanities. The new languages taught soon included Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Japanese, and Chinese. Kay remained as director of the program until 1970 and of the lab until 1988. We were still not out of the woods. The Foreign Literature Department was unhappy about losing the language constituency and was not as cooperative as it might have been in agreeing to joint appointments or secondments. In 1969 I appointed a committee of three outsiders to examine the structure and offerings in the literature departments and the language program. On receipt of the committee’s report, CUS established a subcommittee under John Yolton to evaluate it and make recommendations. The committee recommended the establishment of a new division of language studies with ‘three different but interrelated functions (a) the continuation and development of current programs in theoretical and applied linguistics (and possibly the history of language) (b) the continuation and development of the current programs in language training and (c) the establishment of interdisciplinary language studies.’ Council approved the proposals in December 1970. In 1978–79, after my time as dean, the programs were reorganized within a unified Department of Languages, Literatures and Linguistics, with French remaining a separate department with its own language program. By 2005 a department of eighty-six faculty offered regular language-training courses in nine languages, and it was possible to arrange courses in many others, including Swahili and American Sign Language. Honours degrees were offered in German studies, Russian studies, Italian, and Spanish. The department also offered a variety of literature and culture courses taught either in the native language or in English. Many of the language and culture courses were cross-listed with humanities and were often an integral part of area studies programs in the division. One of the problems with York’s approach to language training was that many, if not most, of the faculty were native speakers who did not have a PhD or were not research-oriented and could not meet senate requirements for promotion and tenure. Since they were essential to the success of good language teaching, we had to devise a system with different criteria to protect them. In 1973 a committee chaired by Michael Kay recommended that we follow Glendon’s example and create a separate stream. Council approved a motion to create different

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ranks and criteria but to allow transfer of faculty into the regular stream. Over strenuous objections, senate approved the proposal in February 1973. The stream still exists, but no use of it has been made for many years and none is apparently likely to be in the future (perhaps because the application of the criteria for promotion and tenure has generally become more flexible). We did not attempt to remove language and writing training from the Department of English, although I was not alone in believing that this should have been done. All faculty members spoke some version of the language, but few were trained in language acquisition and applied linguistics. Over the department’s opposition, in 1967 we established a centre for academic writing (or Writing Workshop) under the dean’s office. We recruited Michael Rehner from the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, a pace setter in the field, as director of the centre. He not only agreed with the jurisdictional location, but insisted that it be ‘quite separate from the English Department, otherwise students and faculty would continue in the ages-old misconception that teaching/learning of writing skills was somehow an English department responsibility.’ We also hired Robert Cluett in both the Department of English and the centre. Rehner recalls his first year: Cluett and I clearly understood that I was the principally responsible person to make this thing fly. His preference was for group instruction with set ‘curriculum’ while mine was almost exclusively for delivering ‘individually tailored’ instruction mainly through one-on-one tutoring but with some short-term, small group ‘workshops’ where practicable. We did some of each. I spent a good deal of my time collecting and analyzing data and anecdotal evidence to determine what the students-aswriters and their professors-as-readers thought were the problems that most needed to be addressed. By the end of that first year Cluett and I were tutoring and designing workshops with a keener sense of where our emphases should be in our work with students. And at a massive faculty luncheon-meeting in the late spring of 1968 I presented an oral report on our progress, in which I figured I was taking a first crack at reshaping the professors-as-readers’ perceptions of what should be going on when students are learning to write by ‘writing to learn.’

The program expanded rapidly and continually. In 1993 it was appropriately upgraded and renamed the Centre for Academic Writing. By 2005–6 a faculty of twenty-five taught 3,000 students,

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offered individual writing instruction and a dozen credit courses on questions related to writing, taught courses in the professional writing program, and offered many non-credit workshops. Professor John Spencer, the current director, recently wrote me that ‘I think it is safe to say that as a result of the sound footing established from the beginning, primarily the fact that it was a fairly independent interdisciplinary unit, the Centre has developed into one of the strongest writing centres in Canada, and one of the best in North America.’ In the fall of 1967, CUS again reviewed the gen. ed. program. ‘The major virtues of the first year general education courses as we visualize them,’ they asserted, ‘are their inter-disciplinary approach to understanding and their overall coherence … [The divisional courses] are designed deliberately to emphasize how different approaches can be brought to bear on the same problem, and how understanding can be furthered by multiple levels of explanation.’ The committee concluded that ‘much of the coherence of the First Year derives from the place in the programme of the course in Methods and Criteria of Reasoning. Its premise is that there are different modes of reasoning … Clearly, a course which explores “the nature of good reasons and sound reasoning” assumes a vital role – as source and feedback – in a programme in which, concurrently, students are exposed to a variety of problems arising from the complexities of human experience.‘ The committee concluded that, just as languages were not general education courses, ‘now, by implication, we are saying that the mathematics courses at present offered under Modes of Reasoning do not satisfy our notion of general education courses.’ CUS then recommended the addition of a special tutorial among the options in the first-year program to provide the opportunity for concentration on some issue or problem. The tutorial would be attached to one of the humanities or social science courses chosen by the student. The object was not to ‘attempt to deepen the student’s knowledge of the entire course, but rather through a combination of reading, writing and discussion, force the student to pursue a particular issue or problem to its fundamentals.’ Maximum enrolment in the tutorial was ten; the students would meet for one hour a week with a full-time faculty member. The recommendation aroused much opposition. Those opposed to anything or everything in the general education program used the occasion to argue their case. Some deplored the alleged lack of rigour in the divisional courses generally and wanted

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to see departmental courses in the first year; others argued that insufficient thought had been given to the nature of the special tutorial. After two hours of contentious debate, the recommendations were approved fifty-four to twenty-four. What we failed to realize was that, by dropping the math option, only one compulsory ‘Modes’ course remained. By this time, the Division of Humanities had thirty-four full-time faculty, many of whom were cross appointed, and fifteen part-time instructors and was offering several sections of each course with different instructors and contents. The nine divisional humanities courses, which had an average size of 134 students, were organized into weekly two-hour tutorials of 30 each. The Social Science Division also had a large faculty, most of them seconded from the departments, and was offering four first-year courses, with an average size of 334, each with a one-hour tutorial. However, Modes of Reasoning was taught by a few members of the Department of Philosophy and its graduate students. In the fall of 1968 York admitted 1,600 to first year, and, with secondyear students, the enrolment in ‘Modes’ was over 1,800. The course was divided, with each section of 250 watching a live performance while the remaining 650 watched the lecture by closed circuit television in four lecture rooms, each supervised by a graduate student. The learning situation was far from acceptable, particularly for a course that began with symbolic logic. As the student paper Excalibur observed a year later, ‘the first successful classroom revolt was initiated by first year students who simply became too frustrated by a compulsory course called Modes of Reasoning to remain still any longer. The lectures to which the 1800 students were subjected twice a week were boring to the nth degree and the content was so irrelevant and unreal as to make one think the professor who originated the course first conceived the idea while watching the “Twilight Zone.”’ Although most students were apathetic or felt that a protest was futile – and some even spoke up for the course – a petition signed by six hundred requesting to use a lecture hour to discuss the course was brusquely rejected by the faculty. After a major classroom disruption and shouting match in the lecture hall, a meeting between student representatives and the faculty failed to find a resolution. The faculty insisted that no major change could be made in the middle of the year. It was apparent to me that while we could not abolish the course or change it significantly in the middle of the year, we could at least allow some small student-generated courses under voluntary faculty super-

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vision. As we struggled to find some solution, Professor Brayton Polka, the senior tutor in Vanier College, suggested that Modes be replaced by courses in each college taught by fellows of the college. The courses would focus on the problem of communication. The major means of assessment would be essays, and the courses would be graded on a pass/fail basis. Undoubtedly looking for any solution, I told Excalibur that Polka had ‘the best idea I have seen yet’ and that only an ‘overwhelming number of problems’ could prevent its approval in some form. The two major problems were immediately apparent: finding funds and securing the approval of the college masters. In January 1969 council approved in principle a CUS recommendation that Modes be abolished as a compulsory course and replaced by a college tutorial on a pass/fail basis, ‘the guidelines to be approved by Council and a coordinator appointed by the Faculty on the recommendation of the Master and Fellows of a College.’ In the fall of 1969 enrolment in Modes fell from 1,800 to 60. By 1972 there were two mathematically oriented modes of reasoning courses and plans for more. The old Modes course still exists at Glendon. By 1969–70 general education had evolved into what was more appropriately called the first-year program. Much of the original conception had vanished. There was really no common core. Virtually the entire second year could be devoted to departmental electives. There were soon complaints by students and faculty about the pass/fail grading in the college tutorial, and in 1973 the faculty established normal grading and decided that the curriculum was to be vetted by a college committee on curriculum development. But there was little quality control: the tutorials ranged from the brilliant to the absurd, but they were not abolished until 1997, when the first-year curriculum underwent a major revision. What Excalibur boasted was the first successful classroom revolt may have spawned other similar protests about courses in social science and natural science, and even the demand that natural science be removed from the arts curriculum. However, in 1972 the countercalendar, in which students evaluated courses, found that on a scale of 1 (Excellent) to 5 (Disaster) only three of the twelve natural sciences courses were rated as low as 3 while social science had ten of twentynine with 3 or below, and, with an overall rating of 2.9, was the worst in the faculty. These dismal results in the Social Science Division were largely my fault. Given no obvious alternative, I had agreed to chair the division

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when I came to York and, for the same reason, stayed on until 1967, when I persuaded David Hoffman of political science to take it on. As a result there had been no leadership in the development of curriculum and little in the way of full-time divisional appointments. By 1968 the division had only four full-time faculty, and it was not until the 1970s that there was some sense of its being a separate entity with a coherent program. When we repeatedly surveyed student opinion, to determine the causes of drop-out rates in the early 1970s, we found that while the students felt that the divisional courses broadened their outlook, many of them lacked rigour and focus in content and presentation. Without abandoning the divisional courses, many students believed that departmental courses should be permitted in the first year. Whatever its virtues, by 1972–73 the first-year program had lost any semblance of the original idea of a ‘common core’ of knowledge and represented an enormous investment of time and money. By 1972 there were more than 3,000 course registrations in both humanities and social science, and the number of courses and sections of each course had proliferated. Lectures were an efficient use of resources but each lecture course also provided tutorials. At the outset, when money was plentiful, I had agreed that each humanities course could have a onehour lecture and a two-hour tutorial, while social science was the reverse. With the special tutorial and the college tutorial, a typical firstyear student in 1972 could have six – or even more – tutorial hours, perhaps half or more of their academic credits. With 2,000 first-year students, there were about 12,000 student hours in tutorials. Tutorials that had once had ten students had often grown to twenty-five to thirty, but, whether taught by full- or part-time faculty or graduate teaching assistants, they were enormously expensive. Those who taught tutorials knew – as faculty at York and other universities still know – much of the investment was wasted. For many (perhaps most) students, the stick of participation – which often was little more than attendance – was more effective than the carrot of intellectual engagement. But faculty in the divisions and in departments such as history that had used the tutorial system rejected as heresy any suggestion that the compulsory requirement that students ‘trade ignorance’ for a few hours a week be dropped, or that the tutorial should be voluntary or an alternative to a quiz section. After all, education at York from the beginning had been based on the ‘tutorial system.’ However, with tutorials approaching the size of lecture

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courses, and with the lack of motivation of many students and faculty both palpable and measurable, it was obvious that the old tutorial system no longer existed. Any detailed description of what is again called general education is well beyond my experience and the boundaries of this book. Although the nature of gen. ed. changed continually over the years, basic socalled foundations courses in both humanities and social science remain among the requirements within the first two years, and natural science or a science disciplinary course is a graduation requirement. There is an additional breadth requirement of a least one course from both the humanities and social science disciplines. All the basic divisional foundation courses are loosely ‘attached’ to a college. The divisions today are large undertakings. Humanities has sixty full-time and cross-appointed faculty and social science about seventy. There is enormous disciplinary cross-fertilization in the divisions, as members of most departments seem to be represented. There are over 150 courses in humanities in such broad categories as cultures in conflict, systems of thought and values, and gender and family studies. Degrees may be taken in classical studies, creative writing, cultural studies, religious studies, and science and society. The School of Women’s Studies includes a merged undergraduate program of all women’s studies in the university. Programs offered through the Division of Social Science include area studies in Africa, South Asia, and Latin America and the Caribbean. Other multidisciplinary degree programs include business and society, communications, criminology, health and society, international development, labour studies, urban studies, and social and political thought. Thus although the 1960s version of gen. ed. is dead, its legacy is a richly textured canvas of inter- and multi-disciplinary courses and degrees. Dead but not buried. In the 2004–5 Planning, Budget and Accountability Report an interesting note appears in the vice-president academic’s report: a year earlier a process had begun ‘to consider issues relating to the role and relevance of general education requirements; this discussion has not moved forward during 2004–2005 as a result of other pressing planning priorities, such as consideration of a health faculty.’ As interested faculty members facilitated the institution of the multidisciplinary, multidepartmental programs, few aroused any controversy. Although a religious studies program was ultimately offered through humanities, the question of religious studies had a long and

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troubled history that revealed both the divisions within the university and between the academy and the world outside. There was little doubt about the centrality of religion in the history of Western and non-Western cultures. But a religious studies ‘program’ at a secular university was a different matter, for it aroused fears of sectarianism. The problem became obvious when the question first arose in 1965. Pressures on the university and particularly on the Faculty of Arts came from two sources – with quite different motives and context. Sometime in the early 1960s Murray Ross told me that a prominent Toronto rabbi had offered to finance a position in Jewish studies. As usual Murray and the board were eager to get the cash. When I asked for more details, Murray arranged a meeting with Rabbi Stuart Rosenberg. It was all very affable – for a while. I agreed that Jewish studies – history and culture – was an appropriate and desirable field for academic study and teaching. But what soon emerged was the real issue. The donor wanted not only a voice in the appointment but also a provision whereby the appointee would be a part-time member of the staff of the synagogue. Much to Murray’s dismay, I said at once that both conditions were unacceptable. They smacked of sectarianism – indeed constituted sectarianism – and I was certain that even devout Jews on the faculty would not approve. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of the matter. At about the same time – June 1965 – Murray told the board–senate liaison committee that, in view of donation by Peter Scott, the new board chair, of funds for a chapel on campus and given the pressures (from where he did not say) to establish a Department of Religious Studies, the matter was a ‘pressing one.’ As a result Murray appointed a committee to study the feasibility of a religious studies program and make recommendations. In December the committee dutifully recommended that senate be requested to establish religious studies either as a department or as an interdepartmental program. That was agreeable to me, and, as was inevitable, the senate secretary felt that the appropriate deliberative forum was the Faculty of Arts. When I informed the board–senate liaison committee early in March 1966 that the question was before CUS, Scott, who had replaced Robert Winters as chair of the board in 1965, stated ‘that there was some prospect of securing a significant grant from a foundation to support a Religious Studies programme’ and that an early decision was essential. At a meeting of CUS in March 1966, I explained that Scott and Ross were pressing for a decision as an ‘urgent’ matter and had assured me

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that the leading members of all denominations were in favour of it. To present some kind of discussion paper, I appointed a committee composed of Michael Creal of humanities, an ordained Anglican priest; Fred Schindeler of political science, who had taken an undergraduate degree at a Baptist seminary; Sydney Eisen of history as a spokesperson for the Jewish community; Diogenes Allen of philosophy, among whose five degrees was a BD from Yale; and Tony Richmond, a Quaker sociologist, with John Yolton as a secular chair. I explained to the committee the nature of at least some of the pressure. On 21 June 1966 Yolton informed me that the committee was deeply divided. Some doubted whether there was sufficient scholarship in the area of religious studies to enable York to establish a program with a high degree of academic precision in the study of religion, and all were concerned about the danger of devotional intrusion in presenting the subject matter. Most of the committee felt that any program of religious studies ought to cover more than just Judaism and Christianity, but the possibilities of doing more seemed rather limited at the time. In fact, then and later, only Creal was enthusiastic about religious studies as not only appropriate but necessary. Schindeler was opposed but willing to move ahead slowly if proper controls were established, as was Allen. Eisen and Richmond were totally opposed, at least for the time being. In December 1966 I asked Yolton to reconvene the committee. ‘A matter has arisen which might lead the committee to reconsider its position or reaffirm it,’ I wrote, ‘namely, the prospect of a major grant to establish such a department and appoint to it a number of full professors. I have promised the president that I would take the matter up with the committee.’ The prospect, though I knew little of the details, was another approach by Stuart Rosenberg, ‘a powerhouse who saw a great opportunity at York,’ recalls Eisen. ‘I believe he had a vision of three chairs – Judaism, Protestantism, Catholicism. As I recall, he was going to help us raise money for all three of them. I was opposed to getting into so much theology while we were just a fledging university. Nor was I sure about Rosenberg who was going to occupy the Jewish chair.’ The committee met in February 1967 and after several meetings Yolton circulated a draft report in October 1967, generally agreed to by all but Creal, stating that after several meetings it ‘is our opinion now that to take a large sum of money from one foundation or from one group is most unwise since, even though there may be some safeguards, the tendency for the money-giving group to put more pressure

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than one might like upon the structure of the programme would always be there.’ The general conclusion, wrote Yolton, among ‘those of us who initially were on the negative side of the issue is that York should not go ahead at this time with a programme in this area.’ Despite continuing pressure from Rosenberg and another rabbi, Gunther Plaut, that remained the view of the committee, with Creal virtually alone in his minority position. By then the planning for a non-sectarian and academic religious study program was underway in humanities. Creal had favoured the creation of an interdisciplinary program, and early in the 1967–8 term I suggested to him and Eisen that we appoint someone who could also teach modern Hebrew. The task was not easy, but Eisen contacted a friend in the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. He recommended two new graduates, Michael Brown and Sol Tanenzapf, who also held a Yale PhD, but added that ‘the Seminary required all of its graduates to go off for a couple of years to bring light and learning to areas not served by Jewish institutions.’ After some negotiations, Eisen was informed that ‘Toronto had been declared a Jewish cultural desert’ and that both men could come – and they did, in 1968. Brown had the task of creating a modern Hebrew language program and was also cross-appointed to humanities, while Tanenzapf developed courses on the Bible and the ancient Near East. The inter- and multi-disciplinary framework permitted humanities to add more faculty in religious studies. Because by 1972 there were also a variety of courses in other departments with religion as a focus, it was time to formally establish a truly interdisciplinary and independent academic program. By 2005 there were 105 humanities majors in religious studies. The Centre for Jewish Studies was inaugurated in 1989, largely through the efforts of Sydney Eisen. Apart from the first-year requirements and the growing number of combined honours and inter- and multi-disciplinary general honours programs, the York undergraduate curriculum was similar to that in other universities. The students voted largely with their registration forms, but their selection of courses and majors seemed to bear little relationship to what I saw as the quality of the departments. Instead their selections may have been based on a real interest in the subject, or on job prospects, or on their perception of what courses were easiest. Table 4.1 provides a detailed look at the 1972 course registrations in the major departments and the number of ordinary and

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Table 4.1

Largest Departments, York University, 1972

Department Economics English Geography History Political science Psychology Sociology & anthropology

Number of students by

Ratio of faculty to

Number of faculty

CRa

Majorb

Honoursc

CRa

Major

28 54 27 50

1,148 2,386 1,247 1,945

300 557 364 445

100 216 103 179

1:41 1:44 1:46 1:39

1:11 1:10 1:14 1:9

26 68

1,619 3,504

323 850

107 303

1:62 1:52

1:12 1:13

50

3,200

423

86

1:64

1:9

a

Course registration Year 2–4 declared major c Year 2–4 students in specialized and combined honours programs b

honours students in each. The great discrepancy in course registrations among the departments was the result of the heavy inflow of nonmajors into psychology, and less so to sociology, from students in all departments. There was almost none to economics and geography, perhaps because they were the two lowest in the percentage of marks of B and above, while psychology ranked first. The considerable movement of students between history and political science and history and English would seem to be based on affinity of content rather than the ease of passage. While the first-year requirements were carefully and frequently examined, the departmental curricula generally were routinely approved without examination, and the course content was questioned only if it appeared there was curricular imperialism or encroachment on other departments or divisions. The distinctiveness of departmental programs could be seen less in the undergraduate than in the graduate programs, where the fields and the dissertation more closely mirrored the quality of the faculty. And that was largely a result of the decade of recruiting told in the next chapter.

Recto Running Head

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5 ‘Someone Will Have to Teach Them’

The failure to anticipate and prepare for the unprecedented expansion of the university population in the 1960s was inexplicable and inexcusable. The government had been warned in 1955 that the university population would double by 1965. Moreover, though no one knew at the time, the proportion of secondary school graduates proceeding to university would increase from 4 to 24 per cent during the 1960s. With projections increasing at an alarming rate, the government asked the Committee of Presidents to study and recommend a solution to the emerging crisis. Armed with figures more disturbing than any yet published, a subcommittee under John Deutsch reported in 1962 that by 1966 the number of first-year students would equal the total number of university students enrolled in 1963. After that, he wrote, ‘we face an unremitting expansion of spasmodic intensity, with no major contractions in sight in the foreseeable future and with major crises three or four years ahead.’ The government could have allowed the universities to solve the numbers problem by raising their admission standards, as the University of Toronto and probably others fully intended. But such a solution was politically unrealistic and socially irresponsible, as the government and the universities realized. Apparently without long and deep deliberations, the government determined that every student who could meet the minimum requirements for graduation from Grade 13 would be entitled to admission to a university and that the province had the financial responsibility to enable the university system to provide the places. New universities would be created and old ones would expand. York as an ‘old’ university became a victim of those

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demographic and political realities and was told to absorb 7,000 undergraduates by 1970. There were 511 in the fall of 1963. The Deutsch Report emphasized another far more intractable dimension of the problem that money alone could not solve. There would be 20,000 more undergraduates in Ontario by 1965, the report warned, ‘and no matter what kind of institution we put them into, someone will have to teach them.’ The pressure would be on the faculties of arts and science, which would have to grow from 1,173 ‘someones’ in 1962 to 3,600 by 1970. Ontario’s solution was a ‘crash’ program to double the number of graduate students. The government believed that a ‘few may be obtained from abroad, but it would be self-delusion to think we shall not have to recruit and train most of them ourselves.’ A more realistic but still hopelessly optimistic government study in 1963 observed that the ‘real question is whether the staff in such numbers can be obtained at all, and if it were not for the new provincially supported programme of graduate studies the situation would be bleak.’ The prospect of producing Canadian-trained faculty to meet the demand was indeed bleak. The number of graduate students at Canadian universities up to the mid-1970s at least, when the period of rapid growth suddenly ended, could not begin to meet the demand for new faculty in most fields. The dimensions of the ‘someone problem’ were even more staggering than most realized at the time. The lamentable truth was that Canada had never staffed its own universities; rather, it had relied heavily on recruits from the United Kingdom and the United States. In 1960 there was very little graduate education at an advanced level in most fields. When the crisis arrived, there was no substantial base on which to build. The professoriate was not trained, either in quantity or, often, in quality, to direct advanced graduate work. Libraries were inadequate. Moreover, planners failed to realize that it would be five to seven years before students with PhDs, the generally accepted passport to the academy, were rolling off the new production lines. (We began a doctoral history program at York in 1968, but the first two PhDs did not graduate until 1973 – and they were the fast ones.) The composition of university faculties was also changing dramatically in the 1960s. In the social sciences the faculty increased from 20 to 30 per cent of the total, and it was in the social sciences that Canadian universities were sadly ill-prepared for the deluge.

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In Canada between 1960 and 1972, faculty in the humanities grew from 1,600 to 7,100, but the number of doctoral degrees awarded was only 1,076, and more than half of those were after 1968. In the social sciences, faculty across Canada grew from 1,500 to 7,500, but only 1,054 doctorates were awarded. Statistics Canada estimated that the domestic production of doctorates in Canada in the 1960s was 12 per cent of the faculty increase in economics, 5.5 per cent in political science, 23 per cent in history, and 5.3 per cent in sociology and anthropology. In the latter field, only forty doctorates were awarded. York’s Department of Sociology and Anthropology, which grew from zero to forty-five faculty, could have absorbed all these individuals. The unpleasant truth was that Ontario, and indeed the country as a whole, could not manufacture the necessary faculty, at least certainly not in time. While not alone in facing the enormous task of matching the mandated enrolment with the faculty necessary to teach them, York had been given the task of the greatest dimensions. In the spring of 1964 I tried to provide a rough projection of where we were likely to be in 1970. ‘It is impossible to predict, even two years ahead, the structure of the faculty and perhaps foolhardy to project to 1970,’ I began. ‘Changes in curriculum, student interest, creation of new faculties, rapid movement in graduate work in some areas of study, and the very real danger of not being able to recruit staff in some disciplines, make all predictions very tentative. Nevertheless, the figures below may well come close to picturing the size and structure of the faculty after five years of experience at the main campus.’ How close were these estimates? I forecast a total enrolment of 5,420 in 1970; the actual would be 5,800 in arts and 763 in science. My estimate was a full-time faculty complement of 463 of whom 100 would be in science; in 1970–71 the full-time faculty in arts was 375 plus a significant number of part-timers and teaching assistants. It was even more hazardous to predict the size of departments, but I was not far out in absolute numbers and reasonably close when figures were adjusted for cross-teaching. Some forecasts and actual numbers (in parentheses) were: economics 30 (29); English 50 (54); history 34 (47), where many were cross-appointed to the divisions; and political science 30 (46). The greater discrepancies were psychology 32 (62) and sociology 30 (50). The rapid expansion of graduate work in psychology explains some of the underestimate, but a major cause would seem to

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have been the inflow of students from other disciplines to departments where passage seemed easy and grades generous. Estimating the likely salaries for all faculty and staff, I concluded that we would need a budget of $8,000,000 by 1970 but that if salaries remained at their percentage of the university budget in 1964, the figure would rise to $9,240,000. It was also reasonable to assume that major developments in science would increase the budget for lab equipment and supplies. ‘So just for fun,’ I wrote, ‘we might say that operating costs of the Faculty would be in the neighbourhood of $10,000,000 in 1970. And with that happy thought I conclude my report.’ In the event, the arts budget in 1970–71 was $7.7 million and science just over $2 million. From about $500,000 to $10,000,000 was a long way to go. In addition to recruiting faculty, we also had to plan and implement a new curriculum. By the late 1960s we had begun graduate work in most fields. We had also to plan and implement the move from the Glendon campus to York, where the first students were to arrive in 1965. At the same time we were attempting to create a program in teacher education with a unique structure, an enterprise that was to lead to six years of confrontation and negotiation with the government. In 1967 I was chair of a senate committee to design a curriculum and a structure for a new faculty of fine arts. In the world outside, I remained the editor of the Canadian Annual Review and wrote the lead article on politics. I was also committed to several more text books for Clarke Irwin – enjoyed an angry attack by the press and some politicians for daring to suggest in one that advertisers might influence the way news was handled. And from 1967 to 1969, I was host of the CBC’s Sunday night flagship show, The Way It Is, Excalibur noting that that hour was about the only time to catch me. All in all, it was an exciting time. Murray Ross had assured me that as ‘dean-designate’ – although that title never appeared – I was to be in charge of building the Faculty of Arts and Science. Edward ‘Pat’ Pattullo, also appointed an associate dean, was to be responsible for ‘college–faculty relationships,’ although it was not clear what that involved. Rollo Earl, the temporary dean, was broken by the Seeley incident in the summer of 1963 and was happy to be relieved of most of his work. He did run the faculty council and its committees with a firm hand – too firm in my view – and dealt with routine academic matters. From the outset I was free to

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deal with building the faculty, and I spent the next ten years doing just that and helping to shape a university. In the spring of 1964, the board confirmed my appointment as dean. By 1963 the annual university-funding exercise had changed very little from 1949, when President Edward Hall of Western complained that presidents, deans, and other university officials ‘have had to forsake education to become executive super-salesmen, leaders of delegations and beggars, so that universities may remain in existence.’ Although budget requests were based loosely on current and projected enrolments, there was still room for a good deal of personal and political interaction as well as effective begging. By 1963 the key government agency was the Ontario Advisory Committee on University Affairs (CUA), whose membership was largely political and bureaucratic but with some outside representation. Each university submitted its wish list to the CUA, and the board chair, president, and other senior staff or faculty appeared before the committee to present what they hoped was adequate justification. The proposed budget was then analysed by the financial research branch of the provincial Department of Economics. On the recommendation of CUA, the government then authorized an ‘academic maintenance’ grant and a budget for capital expenditure. Each university also received a share of the per capita federal grant that had begun in 1951. In 1964 the Ontario government finally created a Department of University Affairs and widened the membership of CUA. At York budgeting had been largely a one-man operation. As Murray Ross explained to faculty council in April 1963, the 1963–64 budget had been prepared, approved by the board, and submitted to CUA in November 1962, but the ‘request to departmental and division heads for more detailed estimates was made subsequently and the budget is being completed in the light of the money available.’ He hoped, he added, that next year’s budget could be prepared after departmental submissions. It was a strange top–down process that apparently had left no room for the dean. Regardless of past practice, by the beginning of September 1963, I had, after discussions with the chairs, drawn up a budget for 1964–65. I met the president and explained in detail how much I needed and why. He was not very forthcoming and suggested that I locate the potential faculty and come to him for approval. I replied that I could not operate on that ad hoc basis, that I needed a firm global budget not only for recruitment of faculty and staff but also for travel, hospitality,

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conference travel, and minor research grants. It became increasingly clear as we talked that Murray apparently did not want a dean with independent budget and hiring authority. With great reluctance he eventually agreed to a figure somewhat less than I had requested. A few weeks later he sent me a memorandum outlining my budget, but with a figure much less than we had agreed upon. Realizing that this was going to be a crucial test of my deanship and my relations with the president, I refused to accept his unilateral decision. After a few tense weeks we negotiated a final settlement that largely restored his original commitment. In 1963–64 York had received a maintenance grant of $900,000 from the province and a federal grant of $163,000. The budget of the faculty appears to have been about $500,000. For 1964–65 York’s request for $1,482,000 was scaled back to $1,300,000, in addition to which we received a federal grant of $214,000. Our submission was based on an anticipated increase in enrolment from 511 to 750 and the need for an additional thirty-eight faculty, of whom five should be full professors. My proposed budget of $400,000 for new faculty was based on York’s average faculty salary of $9,700. As far as I can determine now – such is the sorry state of the university records or flaws in my research – I had a final budget of about $1,000,000. When the hunting season ended, we had appointed five full professors (including two chairs and the future dean of science, none of whom appear in the official university records!), five associates, ten assistants, twelve lecturers, and about twenty full- or part-time instructors. (Who the ‘someones’ were and how they were found is recounted later.) For the next decade, as figure 5.1 indicates, the symbiotic relationship between the number of students (excluding graduate students) and the Faculty of Arts’ share of the budget (excluding that for science, which became a separate faculty) continued to determine the growth of the faculty. On the whole, we were able to secure the budget necessary to recruit a faculty large enough to teach the rapidly growing undergraduate body and, at the same time, to entice enough senior and highly productive faculty to establish graduate programs of very good and, in some cases, excellent quality. Because the salary budget determined the size and quality of the faculty, it was appropriate and, to my mind, essential that as dean of the major faculty I should have a voice in general university salary policy and budget deliberations. When I arrived, York had a salary floor for each rank ranging from $6,000 for a lecturer to $13,000 for a full professor. But there were no guidelines for salaries ranges within

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Figure 5.1 Faculty appointments, size of faculty and student body, and budgets, York Faculty of Arts, 1963–73

Number of appointments

(a) Approximate number of appointments 100 80 60 40 20 0 64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

Year of initial appointment

Size of faculty

(b) Size of faculty and budget ($) 600 500 400 300 200 100 0

©

©

©

63

64

65

© 66

©

© 67

68

©

69

©

70

©

71

©

12,000,000 10,000,000 8,000,000 6,000,000 4,000,000 2,000,000 0

72

Year

©

Faculty

Budget

Number of students

(c) Number of students and budget ($) 7,000 6,000 5,000 4,000 3,000 2,000 1,000 0

©

©

©

©

63

64

65

©

©

©

©

©

12,000,000 10,000,000 8,000,000

©

6,000,000 4,000,000 2,000,000 0

66

67

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Year Students

©

Budget

71

72

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Someone to Teach Them

each rank. I wanted some flexibility and discretionary authority in negotiations, and I also made the case that ‘merit’ pay was essential. In the spring of 1964 I met with the board and outlined some of the principles I used as a guide in building the faculty. I said that there should be a balance of ranks within each department and that we had to be able to hire at all levels. Moreover, I believed that we should maintain the scholarly integrity of each rank and not use elevated rank to increase salaries for new or continuing faculty. I also insisted that ‘floors’ not be ‘ceilings.’ Necessity forced us to modify this fine principle! I also argued that, ‘insofar as feasible, Canadians be appointed as they presented the best prospect for long term association with the University’ – a revealing statement, especially in light of later criticism of my hiring practices. The board retained the existing floors for 1964–65 but approved increases for merit and promotions. In December 1965 I spoke to the board again just as it received a brief from the York University Faculty Association (YUFA) asking for an increase in the floor and an automatic ‘ladder’ increase for everyone. I pointed out that a seller’s market in the universities was making existing salary scales ‘meaningless.’ To attract good faculty, we could not always negotiate within the stated range for a particular rank and often had to pay them more than some members on faculty with comparable qualifications – anomalies that sooner or later would have to be rectified. However, while a major improvement in salaries was a matter of ‘urgency,’ it was essential that increases should be not automatic or across the board but that there be ample provision for merit. Two days later the board raised the floors for 1966–67 to $14,000 for full professors. Of greater importance, it resolved that ‘being aware of the increasingly competitive market for well-qualified and experienced faculty,’ increases not be automatic but ‘must be based on merit’ – a provision as essential in recruiting as in rewarding and retaining good faculty. Throughout my tenure as dean, I contended successfully that although floor increases for cost of living and other variables were important, it was essential to protect and encourage quality and reserve a substantial part of the annual increased salary budget for discretionary merit. YUFA agreed to merit in principle, but wanted to minimize it in practice. On the whole York’s salaries were competitive: floors and annual increments were comparable to those in other Ontario universities. YUFA liked to argue that our average salaries per rank were lower

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than at Toronto, Queen’s, or Western, but they knew very well that many faculty members in the older institutions had been at the rank for years, whereas at York most were new appointments to the rank. Salary increases – based on cost of living, progress through the ranks, and merit in different proportions each year – from 1966 to 1972 ranged from 6 to 15 per cent and averaged 9.5 per cent. (Salaries are discussed in more detail in chapter 12.) But such was the state of Canadian and American academic markets that, regardless of the money available, recruiting a faculty of quality was not easy. In my 1966–67 report to the president I observed that the recruitment of faculty was my ‘most serious and time-consuming problem.’ While most departments secured the number sought, it was difficult to attract senior faculty. The resignations of several chairs added to the burden. Nevertheless that year we managed to make eighty-five appointments: six professors, five associates, twenty-five assistants, twenty-three lecturers, and twenty-one part-time instructors and teaching assistants. .

By the time we submitted our budget for 1967–68 to CUA, Queen’s Park had made a radical change in the method of allocating operating grants. No longer would it be ad hoc and discretionary; rather, it was based on a quantitative formula that had been developed by a subcommittee appointed by CUA and the Committee of University Presidents. The formula was based on basic income units (BIUs), with students at various levels worth so many BIUs – one for general arts and six for doctoral students – all derived from cost estimates at the University of Toronto. The government then determined the value of the BIU and used it in allocating operating grants. The Ministry of University Affairs insisted that the source of the BIUs was in no way to determine how the grant was allocated within a university, but it seemed to me inevitable and proper that there be some correlation. The difference between earned BIU income for the faculties and the budget – which I called the effective tax rate – was an argument I used often in budget meetings when money became tight. Naturally, arts was more heavily taxed than other faculties, except Atkinson, and contributed disproportionately to general university operations. For example, in 1970–71, arts earned 50.5 per cent of the BIU income, but spent only 44 percent – and the discrepancy was often greater. Initially, and certainly throughout my term as dean, York was at a

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marked disadvantage to older universities. In 1968 we estimated that our average student was weighted at 1.42 BIUs while the average for established institutions was 1.75. We could not deny that educating graduate students cost more than undergraduates but argued that, although our programs were small, a minimum number of courses at the senior undergraduate and graduate level were essential. In our annual budget submissions to CUA – where representatives of other universities repeatedly questioned our offering of honours and graduate degrees – we requested a special supplement to offset the disadvantages until our unit distribution had changed. There were provisions for ‘emerging’ universities and ‘emerging’ faculties, and York milked them to the limit with its constantly ‘emerging’ new faculties and programs. In 1967 the federal government also made a radical change in its financial aid to universities. When the federal program began in 1951, Ottawa paid fifty cents per student, increasing this rate to five dollars in 1965, each university getting its relative share. But in 1967 Ottawa introduced a cost-sharing program with the provinces, under which it paid 50 per cent of the eligible operating costs directly to the provinces, thus respecting provincial jurisdiction. With fifty cents on the dollar, cost sharing should have encouraged the provinces to increase their own spending, but over time it did the reverse, and the federal share of aid to universities increased – at least in Ontario. Cost sharing, a combination of cash payments and tax transfers, increased from $335 million in 1967–68 to $1.4 billion in 1975–76, when the program was replaced by the Established Programs Financing Act. By 1968 there were other ominous signs that the province was entering a period of spending restraint. Although it was not obvious at the time, the beginning of the end of the great university barbecue came in 1968 when the Treasury Board and cabinet took over final decision making from CUA. The cost of postsecondary education had been $24 million in 1959–60 and was to reach $320 million in 1970, and the government was determined to get it under control. In January 1969 the Treasury Board asked CUA to reduced operating grants by $5 million and hold the line on the value of the BIU. In November the minister stated ‘that we have reached the end of the line ... We cannot afford to increase by any significant degree the amounts being directed to universities in future years.’

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We began our 1969–70 internal budget discussions soon after term opened in September 1968. Our fears of financial constraint were confirmed when the CUA arrived on campus in October. The mood was somber as we faced the usual questions about the luxury of honours work, the expansion of graduate studies, and our faculty-to-student ratio. Unfortunately, I lost it. It was unrealistic, I exclaimed, to expect us quantitatively and qualitatively to do what was expected with the level of support we were given. According to the minutes, ‘[Saywell] suggested that members of the Committee cease being apologists for the Government and concentrate upon pressing the University’s case in such a way that more support would be forthcoming.’ After I had emphasized what a tough task it was to develop everything at once in a new university, Douglas Wright, the CUA chair, asked my view of the appropriate ‘rate of growth and whether the anticipated growth rate of York might not be more than could be reasonably managed. To this Dean Saywell provided no definite answer.’ Both of us were unfair: the government had dictated our rate of growth, as Wright well knew, but I did not know that CUA itself had protested the Treasury Board cuts. My worst fears were confirmed a few weeks later when our preliminary budget figures for 1969–70 were circulated. I had asked for $6.8 million to handle increased enrolment, senior faculty for the graduate programs, modest salary increases, sabbaticals, and better support services. My preliminary allocation was only $5.6 million, an increase of only a million. I called an emergency meeting of the chairs, outlined the situation, and asked them for an assessment of the impact on their units. With the predictable memos of doom and gloom on my desk, on 20 December 1968 I wrote a long letter to Murray Ross: For the first time since I became Dean of this Faculty I feel that I must make a written protest against the preliminary budget allocation … I most seriously request that you make a radical upward revision of our budget as the only alternative to a serious and, perhaps, disastrous lowering of the quality of instruction and of the morale of the Faculty. Although I was assured initially that the amount of new money allocated the Faculty was equitable, on looking at the allocations as outlined in the circular of November 25th, I can find no rational objective grounds for that distribution ... Also, I fail to understand why this Faculty which bears the brunt of the

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Someone to Teach Them instruction in the university, should, in fact, suffer the greatest margin between the increase in its enrolment and earning capacity and the increase in its budget ...

I underlined the importance of adding faculty simply to maintain what was an unsatisfactory staff–student ratio, argued that our teaching loads were a hard eight or nine hours a week without considering honours and graduate theses supervision and new course preparation in the upper years, and insisted that new senior faculty were essential to strengthen our graduate programs. After more of the same, I concluded that the Faculty of Arts needed $832,000 over its initial allocation and itemized exactly where and why this amount was essential. While I acknowledged that the amount might seem excessive, ‘I would ask the Administration to consider this statement very carefully before remaining firm in its present distribution of admittedly limited resources, which distribution satisfies neither my knowledge of mathematics nor my sense of justice.’ Murray replied that ‘We have all been asked by Mr. Robarts [the premier] (personally) to keep expenditures to a minimum. I suggested that he allow us to even-off enrolment so that what really was available could be used more effectively (no go !) I will do what I can to get additional funds for your faculty, but $800,000 plus is not possible ... Your emphasis on quality in undergraduate education as well as at the graduate level is so important we must find ways to support you.’ Murray urged me to cut back on low-priority items, such as secretarial support and Russian studies or ‘whatever you think can be managed.’ He promised to cut back on other services to provide additional funds. In the end he found an additional $400,000, and, with bits and pieces added, my 1969–70 budget was $6.2 million. Although we tightened up, we managed to recruit about seventy-five new faculty to replace those on sabbatical and the usual turnover, and to accommodate the additional enrolment without a disastrous increase in the student–faculty ratio. The government continued cutting and also threatened to eliminate entrance scholarships and graduate student fellowships. Although the rate of increase declined, enrolments continued to grow. In September 1970 we admitted 2,200, making our enrolment 5,800. The Faculty of Arts budget of $7.7 million for 1970–71 kept pace with these changes, and we were able to recruit eighty new faculty.

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By the fall of 1970 York had more than fulfilled its mandate of soaking up 7,000 undergraduates. Arts registered 5,800, Glendon 1,070, science 766, fine arts 400, and administrative studies 100. We were easily over the top without including Atkinson, Osgoode, or graduate students. York had become the third-largest university in Ontario in terms of enrolment and had the second-largest Faculty of Arts. Between 1963 and 1972, when the party was over, the Faculty of Arts had become responsible for 6,400 undergraduates – that figure adjusted for crossteaching in fine arts, education, and administrative studies. Our graduate programs registered 254 full-time and 98 part-time doctoral students. During those years, I estimated that the Faculty of Arts had hired more than 700 faculty. There had been a substantial turnover – voluntary or imposed – among the lecturers but little among senior faculty. We had been able to appoint and retain faculty at all levels. When term opened in 1972. we numbered 85 professors, 17 visiting professors, 121 associates, 144 assistants, 93 lecturers, 27 sessional lecturers, and 22 instructors. I have no exact figures, but one estimate of the number of part-timers suggests they were the equivalent of 47 full-time faculty. And if we use nine hours of graduate student teaching as one full-time equivalent (FTE), an additional 82 faculty could be added to the teaching roster. The administration’s figures in November 1972 indicated that arts had 516.5 full-time faculty, with 43.5 on leave and a faculty–student ratio of between 1:12 and 1:14. Although I had no administrative experience, I believed that as dean I had the responsibility not only to ensure the recruitment of adequate numbers to keep up with enrolment, but also to monitor and direct departments in their promotion and retention deliberations and standards. I acted from the outset in the belief, later endorsed by the senate committee on the structure and organization of the senate and the university (COSSU) in April 1972, that ‘one of the Dean’s most critical functions is to overview the evolving shapes and thrusts of his/her faculty. In this contention, it is important for him/her to have some measure of authority to ensure that the quality of Departments in his/her faculty does not decline and to ensure that the mounting of innovative programs is not sacrificed to myopic interests of the moment.’ Those principles were more easily articulated than applied.

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I discussed general faculty development in regular meetings with the chairs and in faculty council. Until the volume became too onerous, I interviewed most candidates but in later years met only key senior people and tenure appointments. While the broad range of salaries was clear, there was almost always room for negotiations, which usually took place in my office before the final offer was made. I also played an active role in identifying possible recruits – mainly senior academics – to add strength in specific fields, particularly in the developing graduate programs, and then asking, persuading, sometimes bullying departments to bring them on board. I learned early that it was utopian to assume that all departments at all times wanted the very best we could attract. Too often turf and ego had to be protected. The process of recruiting was not uniform: some candidates sought us; others were sought by us. We raided brazenly but selectively, and we willingly accepted talented refugees from other universities. We recruited by word of mouth among colleagues and through the so-called and much denigrated academic network. In those early years, like most universities, we did not advertise. One of York’s early problems was its negative image. Even before the much publicized blow-up in June 1963, York generally had an unenviable reputation. Murray Ross’s early rhetoric that York was to be the Harvard or the Swarthmore of the north was the source of much amusement to those outside. And in his boasting about York, its innovative curriculum and teaching methods, he was publicly critical of other Canadian universities. As Claude Bissell kindly wrote in his autobiography Halfway Up Parnassus, York ‘was propelled by a vigorous and uncompromising idealism ... Inevitably, idealism breeds arrogance and self-satisfaction, and a tendency to compare favourably the visionary splendours of the new with the actualities of the old. Whenever York’s spokesmen talked about the new ideas and contrasted them with the dead past, the University of Toronto sensed a covert attack and bristled.’ We at Toronto were not alone. Few experienced faculty would come to an institution built on rhetoric alone, and York would be a hard sell in a highly competitive market for scarce faculty resources. Somehow, it seemed to me, York had to find a place on the academic map as a home of scholarship, where it would be intellectually and professionally rewarding to work, while retaining the opportunity for change and innovation.

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It was also important for York to find a Canadian face. There were as yet few at York with a national reputation whose very presence was proof our university was the home of scholarship. Thus it was important that York’s new faculty, largely imported from the United States and England, become visible on the Canadian scene. It would take time, but one place to begin was in the late spring meetings of the Learned Societies, as they were then called, which moved every year from city to city across Canada. Usually I would rent a large hotel suite with an adjoining large bed-sitting room with an appropriate bar in each. I encouraged all York faculty who attended the meetings to use the space as their club and to invite, as I did, friends from other universities to join us. It was invariably highly successful. The rooms were crowded for four or five days and late into the nights; some people, it seemed, never left to attend the sessions. There was no arm twisting, but there were many quiet conversations about future possibilities, many of which were later realized. As well as a good investment of taxpayer’s money, it was great fun. Obviously the first step in building the faculty was to determine what we had to build on. A few departments had a strong chair, others had none. Mortimer Appley, a dynamic and experienced New Yorker with a Michigan doctorate who had come as chair of psychology in 1962, could be depended on to be aggressive in building his department. My only problem was to counter his behaviourist bias and encourage him to build a balanced department. With Douglas Verney in the chair, political science was responsibly led. Verney had returned to Oxford after the war and later took his PhD at Liverpool, where he was when K.C. Wheare recommended him to Ross. Has Carol, the geography chair with a Zurich PhD and some American experience, was both solid and stolid. Fortunately, his old-world heavy-handedness was offset by the arrival in 1963 of John Warkentin, destined to be one of the top humanistic geographers in Canada. Philosophy was chaired by John Yolton, an American with an Oxford doctorate. A noted Locke scholar, Yolton had taught at Princeton and Kenyon College and briefly at Maryland, from where the president enticed him north in 1963. He could safely be left alone, with the occasional reminder that philosophy had many faces – and not an abundance of students – and the dean only so much money.

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The chair of mathematic was Dennis Russell, a London PhD, whom Ross had appointed in 1962. To my shame, I had no particular interest in math and was content to see the department grow as it wished. Edgar McInnis, the history chair, had been recruited by Murray from the Canadian Institute of International Affairs in 1960. A fine gentleman of the old school, he was a source of rationality and stability at York. But history would soon need a new chair. Although I had strong personal views about the teaching of foreign languages and literature, I was content for the moment to leave the department in the hands of Lester Pronger, a British Columbian with Paris and Harvard doctorates, whom Murray had hired in 1960. Economics was a field I was eager to see develop, and its failure to thrive was to be one of my great disappointments. George Doxey, the chair, a graduate of London, Lincoln’s Inn, and Capetown, was an affable man more at home in the common room than the research seminar. He was not the man to build a great department, and, despite my best efforts, I failed to persuade any leading Canadian economist to come to York. The chair of English had found greener pastures in 1963, and no one in the department was suitable to replace him. With the departure of John Seeley, sociology had no chair, and I asked Pat Pattullo to take on that task. David Fowle was acting chair of biology and there were two other young scientists on hand but, as a department or a field, science had no real existence. Of the three divisions – natural science, social science, and humanities, the jewels in Murray’s general education curriculum – only the last was alive. Murray had recruited Bill Kilbourn from McMaster in 1962. A graduate of Toronto, Oxford, and Harvard, where he had taken his doctorate, he was a man of broad and eclectic intellectual and artistic interests – ideally suited to lead the division. His enthusiasm had to be kept in check – no easy task for me because he found incomprehensible the rejection of a great idea or a great candidate for mere financial reasons. There was no chair of natural science; I had foolishly agreed to chair social science once it became apparent that was no on else to do it. The immediate recruiting priorities, then, were to find chairs for English and sociology and, much more difficult, to decide what to do about science (see chapter 11). Sociology was a wasteland in Canada, a reflection undoubtedly of the strong and persistent British influence

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on our universities. The great growth of sociology in the United States between the wars had had little influence on Canada. By 1960 there were probably fewer than twenty sociologists in Canada – a handful at Toronto and McGill and a few others scattered across the country. By the mid-1950s apparently only three doctorates in sociology had been awarded in Canada. After Dennis Wrong, a brilliant expatriate then teaching at Columbia had turned us down, I sought advice from S.D. ‘Del’ Clark, the leading sociologist at Toronto, about the prospects in Canada. He said the leading department was at McGill, which had recruited much of its faculty from the University of Chicago, reputedly the world capital of the discipline. Of those he knew at McGill, Clark thought that Fred Elkin might be interested in the opportunity to build a department. Elkin was a Chicago graduate who had come to McGill after the war. He was a published scholar who was interested in French Canada, a field I hoped to develop within all departments. Elkin was quiet and self-effacing, perhaps unimaginative, but he struck me as a mature and sensible scholar who would build a strong department. He accepted the position and joined York on 1 July 1964 to head a department of four. When he left the chair in 1971, the department numbered thirty and we had hired an additional nine for 1971–72, some to replace faculty on leave or those had been encouraged to leave. Finding a chair for English took a circuitous route not uncommon in academic searches. Initially I approached Douglas Grant, a Scot who had been teaching at the University of Toronto but had left to accept a position at Leeds. Grant replied that he was not interested in coming to York but mentioned a young scholar who might be, given the limited opportunities for advancement at Leeds. Michael Millgate was a graduate of Cambridge who, after spending some time as a Fullbright Fellow at Michigan, had taken a PhD at Leeds and was kept on. Although Millgate was only thirty-four, he had written one small book on William Faulkner, a second on American social fiction, edited a selection of Tennyson’s poems, and had almost completed a major work on Faulkner. He was clearly an ambitious and productive young scholar. I planned to be in London late in the fall and invited him down to that city for lunch. Millgate found the offer of a full professorship – undoubtedly premature – and the chair irresistible. As it turned out, he saw himself as ‘head’ of the department not as chair and had consid-

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erable difficulty with the department, particularly with a couple of ambitious critics. He soon left for the University of Toronto and in time became the world authority on Thomas Hardy. It was inevitable, given the large demand and the limited supply, that the majority of York’s appointments were recent PhDs or ABDs. Of the 250 members of the professoriate in 1972–73, most had doctoral degrees although there were about a dozen, largely in the English Department, with advanced British degrees. Those with doctoral degrees in the eight major departments – economics, English, geography, history, philosophy, political science, psychology, and sociology – had come from more than thirty universities in the United States and Canada and ten in the United Kingdom. The leading ‘feeder‘ universities, which accounted for almost one-half of the professoriate and more than one-fifth of the faculty in 1972, were Harvard (20), Toronto (17), London (13), Oxford (11), Berkeley (10), Yale (9), and Princeton (7), with Cornell, Chicago, Columbia, and McGill (6 each). The majority of the graduates from the University of Toronto were in history and the humanities. It was only in the early seventies that we were hiring graduates of the new programs at Western, Waterloo, Carleton, McMaster, Alberta, Saskatchewan, and even York. ‘Our Universities Now Magnets for Teachers,’ read a headline in the Financial Post on 1 December 1965. ‘Professors who left Canada to seek challenging university positions are coming back home to find them. They are joined in the “brain rush” by hundred of foreign professors many of them from the U.S.’ At York we welcomed and encouraged the ‘brain rush’ for reasons of quality and necessity. By the late 1960s, the so-called Americanization of York and other Canadian universities had become a burning issue that involved students, faculty, senate, and the governments of Ontario and Canada. However, the sad truth was that returning Canadians – except new graduates – were few in number and were probably offset by others who still found the opportunities greater south of the border, where university expansion in the 1960s was comparable to that in Canada. At York we had little success in bringing senior Canadian scholars back from the British and American academic wilderness. Dennis Wrong was our first failure but not our last. Soon after I came to York, I tried to lure David Spring, a brilliant Toronto undergraduate with a Harvard PhD, then teaching British history at Johns Hopkins. After

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several visits he seemed on the verge of accepting, but in the end he decided that Hopkins better suited his scholarly interests and domestic life. Another example was my attempt to bring Norman Cantor ‘home.’ Cantor had graduated from the University of Manitoba in 1951, won a Rhodes, and taken his doctorate at Princeton. After three years on the faculty at Princeton he moved to Columbia, where he was in 1965 when we tried to interest him in York. Norman listened, visited, and considered. But in the end a chair at Brandeis was more enticing. Five years later he wrote me that he had resigned the Brandeis chair to become a Distinguished Professor and chair at the State University of New York at Binghampton. ‘Both my wife and I regret not having gone to York five years ago,’ he wrote, ‘but that’s the way it crumbled.’ He finished his brilliant career at New York University; when he retired in 1999 he was acknowledged as one of the finest, if most controversial, medievalists of his generation. In some departments we had considerable success in repatriating young Canadians who had gone to the United States or Britain for graduate work. For example, we recruited ten in both history and sociology, and seven in both economics and English. By 1972 probably about one-sixth of our faculty were young Canadians we had brought back either directly from graduate school or after a short sojourn in the United States. Recruiting often had a chain reaction. For example, in turning us down, David Spring had suggested we consider one of his former students at Hopkins: Sydney Eisen had graduated from Toronto in 1950 and taken his PhD in British history with Spring; by 1964 he was at City College in New York. He and his wife made several trips to Toronto. Although Eisen had written an excellent dissertation, he had published only two articles. I proposed that if he came he could take an early leave on salary, spend a year in England, and finish his book. He accepted. The book remained unwritten. Within two years, his colleagues Brayton Polka and Bernard Zelechow had followed him, and Arthur Haberman, Zelechow’s friend from Temple, liked what he heard of York and came on board. Together they provided a strong historical core in the Humanities Division, as well as teaching strength in history. In sociology, the recruitment of Anthony Richmond in 1965, a London PhD at what later became Bath University, provided another example of a not uncommon chain reaction. Richmond was instrumental in establishing the ethnic research program at York and pub-

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lished widely on immigration and ethnic relations. In 1968, two of his doctoral students at Bath – Bryan Green and Cliff Jansen – followed him to York, where they all remained until their retirement. We sought some scholars for very specific roles, and found them by various routes. In 1965, Mort Appley had been instrumental in establishing what became the Institute of Social Research (ISR) to coordinate and encourage research activities in the social science departments. His model was Angus Campbell’s institute at the University of Michigan, where I sent two young political scientists, David Hoffman and Fred Schindeler, for a summer to learn about quantitative methods, an area ignored by their London and Toronto graduate schools. When Appley left York in 1967, Schindeler became acting director of the institute and immediately began to look for someone to establish a survey research centre. The Canadian search found no suitable candidates, so Schindeler approached Campbell at Michigan, who in turn informed the director of the survey research centre at Michigan. Thus, one evening in September 1967 the latter phoned Michael Lanphier, asking ‘Mike, how would you like to go to Toronto?’ and explaining York’s plans to establish a similar centre at York. Lanphier had graduated from Harvard with a BA in social relations and from Michigan with a PhD in social psychology but had done his research through Michigan’s survey research centre. By 1967 he was keen to leave his position at Penn State and do survey research. Moreover, as an anti-war activist, he found the mood in the United States oppressive. He came up, impressed us all, and joined the faculty in the spring of 1968. Lanphier created York’s Survey Research Centre (SRC) and remained its director until 1975, when it was absorbed into the overall ISR structure. He remained a key figure in sociology and the institute until he retired in 2003. Ramsay Cook, a good friend of mine from the University of Toronto, was also a scholar we sought for a specific role. Although we had assembled an excellent contingent of young Canadian historians, I also wanted to develop a program in Quebec studies – which was Cook’s field. I persuaded my senior colleagues in history that Cook could provide the necessary leadership. Knowing that he had been or was about to be invited to Harvard as a visiting professor, I suggested that now was the time for him to come to York to help build a great department and doctoral program in Canadian and Quebec history. He could come to York at once, and we could easily arrange suitable leave and financial terms with Harvard. He was receptive and called a few

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weeks later to accept. With Peter Oliver, Jack Granatstein, Chris Armstrong (who we moved from Atkinson), and Viv Nelles, whom we brought from UBC – together with John Bosher and Fernand Ouellet (who came later), and with Michiel Horn and Irving Abella at Glendon – for three decades we had by far the best contingent of Canadian historians in the country. It was a particular delight for me as Oliver, Granatstein, Armstrong, and Abella had been my students at Toronto. We then added Ken McRoberts, a Quebec specialist with an ABD from Chicago, in political science, and Jack Warwick, a specialist in Quebec literature, from Western, to provide both departmental and interdisciplinary courses on Quebec. Sometimes we were just lucky. In 1967 I was head of a special senate committee designing a curriculum and structure for a new faculty of fine arts. We had specialists in music and art in the Humanities Division to provide a bridge to the new faculty, but we needed someone in theatre and drama. One day a letter arrived from Joseph Green inquiring about a position. After obtaining his doctorate at Indiana, Green was completing a three-year term as assistant professor of theatre and director of the Bronx Theatre for Hunter College of the City University of New York. Both New York and the university were on the verge of bankruptcy and, as a peace activist, he was disillusioned with the United States. Seeking to leave New York, he sent out sixty letters of inquiry, one of which landed on my desk. His academic and applied credentials looked promising. As he recalled, ‘In the dead of winter ’68, I got a call from a rather brusque guy by the name of John Saywell … who offered to bring me to Toronto for an interview. And he asked before I could reply, how important to you is your wife? So … Rhoda and I flew to Toronto in March ’68 and went through the most intensive set of interviews that I had ever encountered in my relatively short academic career.’ Although the dean of the Faculty of Fine Arts was not appointed until July, Green welcomed a joint appointment in humanities, to develop a theatre course, and in fine arts, where the first students were expected in the fall of 1968. He was to become director of the theatre program, later dean of the faculty, and a prominent figure in the Toronto theatre scene as director and producer. As he later wrote to me ‘What a ride it has been!’ Some of our appointments were the result of the academic network that links even distant friends and colleagues throughout the academic world. For example, in the spring of 1964 I received a call from Paul

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Baron, an eminent Marxist scholar at Stanford. He had heard from our mutual friend, C.B. Macpherson, at the University of Toronto, that I was looking for faculty for a new university. He had a brilliant PhD graduate looking for a job. He spoke so enthusiastically about John O’Neil, a sociologist with wide-ranging scholarly interests and degrees from London and Notre Dame, that I called O’Neil. After talking with him, I was sufficiently impressed to offer him a position. He arrived in the summer of 1964 and ultimately became one of York’s most distinguished and prolific scholars. The network operated at many levels. In 1968, Eli Mandel, a distinguished poet and Can Lit specialist, told me that his friend Irving Layton might be interested in York. I responded with excitement because Layton, though irascible and controversial, was undoubtedly one of the brightest lights in Canadian poetry. But I was also sceptical because I had squared off with him on CBC’s Fighting Words and had always seen him as a quintessential Montrealer. He was keen to accept our offer, partly because Sir George Williams would not give him a permanent position. Some members of the English Department grumbled. Layton had no monographs and only an MA in political science from McGill – as well as a mere eighteen books of poetry and a Governor General’s award. The grumbling disappeared when I let it be known that we would appoint him in humanities if necessary. Layton came in 1969 and retired in 1978, having published ten more books of poetry, excelled in the classroom and the pub, left his partner, married a student in his creative writing class, and fathered his fourth child. He succumbed to Alzheimer’s in 2005. Not all of our network appointments were successful. In 1965 we were looking for a senior political scientist, and possibly a chair, to replace Douglas Verney. I learned through the network that Robert Presthus, a well-known behaviourist and author, among other books, of the widely acclaimed Men at the Top, wanted to leave Cornell. He came for an interview, and we offered him a professorship, but not the chair. He rejected us for Oregon. Early the next fall, he phoned me to ask whether a position was still open. The department was keen to have him and, after another visit, we offered him the chair. Although he immediately turned his research interests to Canada and wrote several books, including Elite Accommodation in Canadian Politics, he did not adjust easily to departmental democracy. As a behaviourist he had fixed notions of what ‘good’ political science was, and it was not

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historical, descriptive, theoretical. In matters of curriculum and appointments, he attempted to force his views on the department. Two years after his appointment, departmental emissaries advised me that Presthus had to be replaced as chair. I was not surprised and the reasons were persuasive. Over dinner I discussed the problem with Presthus as sensitively as I could and suggested that he take a promotion as a University Professor and an early sabbatical. He was obviously not happy as chair and was willing to accept. He remained at York until he retired in 1982. The academic network was also responsible for the appointment of Gabriel Kolko. A graduate of Harvard, Kolko had quickly earned a reputation as a brilliant radical revisionist of American domestic and foreign policy. He was also a prominent figure in the anti–Vietnam War movement at the University of Buffalo in 1969–70, which may have been part of the reason he was interested in moving. Ramsay Cook learned from a friend at Toronto that the department there would not touch Kolko and suggested that we should invite him to York. He accepted a professorship under mutually acceptable terms that allowed him time for his research and travel. He resigned from Buffalo and bought a house in Toronto only to be denied a visa because his presence in Canada would not be in the ‘national interest.’ On the advice of Paul Copeland, a Toronto lawyer interested in such causes, he jumped the border and, aided by York’s pressure on Ottawa, successfully appealed what had been a stupid bureaucratic decision by petty border officials. Kolko retired in 1992 to Amsterdam but has continued his radical critique of American policy. ‘I am also a Canadian citizen,’ he wrote me recently, ‘and do not have a U.S. Passport. I am glad not to be a U.S. subject.’ My greatest disappointment in trying to build strong social science departments was in economics. We had some promising young people but lacked an economist of national standing or reputation. I had written every leading Canadian economist and had enticed some to come and look us over. But we were not competitive – no graduate program, too heavy a teaching load, and too low a salary for economists, who even then seemed a breed apart. On one celebrated occasion I tried to hire Harry Johnston, perhaps the best-known if controversial Canadian economist, then splitting his time between Chicago and London. At the Learneds in Vancouver in 1965, he was

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a frequent visitor to our suite, where as usual he did considerable damage to the bar. At one point on the third-floor balcony I suggested he drop down in Toronto – we would pay a handsome stipend and the additional air fare and hotel – and give an intensive seminar every second week. Several of his friends urged him to seriously consider it. His reply, as I remember, was that if I could make the pool from the balcony he would come – and if not ‘would consider coming as Dean.’ Finally, I decided to do with economics what we had done in science – hire a critical mass of like-minded economists. My friend and colleague at Toronto, Douglas Hartle, had gone to Ottawa in 1962 as research director of the Royal Commission on Taxation (the Carter Commission). There, he had assembled a brilliant group of young economists on his staff, many of them Canadians directly from good graduate schools. The research team was breaking up long before the commission reported in February 1967. Over several two-martini lunches at the Park Plaza in 1966, I urged him to bring a group of his team to York, where they could combine teaching and research in some kind of public policy institute. Hartle was interested, as were some of his team. But the University of Toronto was not to be outdone and in 1967 created the Institute of Policy Analysis – with Doug Hartle as director. That was that. When David Slater, a prominent economist at Queen’s, came to York as president in 1970, he lamented the state of economics. I suggested that if he had come to York when asked years before things might be different! The best-known economist we hired was Andreas Papandreou, and that again was through the network. He had a 1943 Harvard PhD in economics and, after military service, had taught at several top-flight American universities before becoming the chair at Berkeley. When in Greece on a Fulbright, he was asked by Premier Karamanlis to set up a centre for economic research. He later won a seat in Parliament and joined the cabinet when his father became premier in 1964. When a junta seized power in April 1967, he and his father were jailed and charged with conspiracy to commit high treason. Thousands of politically prominent individuals and academics in the West urged American president Lyndon Johnson to intercede. In 1967 the junta declared a Christmas amnesty. Papandreou went first to Paris and then to Sweden, where he secured a temporary position at the University of Stockholm.

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Meanwhile, Tillo Kuhn, a York economist who had worked in Greece and knew Papandreou, urged me to bring him to York. When Papandreou’s response to my letter revealed that he was interested, I followed with a firm offer. Murray Ross was afraid that members of the board might object, but I countered that we would look bad if it leaked out that we had refused to appoint him. However, I did have problems with the Pearson government about his appointment. Lester Pearson had announced his resignation in December 1967 and the Liberal leadership hopefuls – except Pierre Trudeau ,who had yet to reach a decision – were at conference in Winnipeg on 20 January 1968. I was covering the conference for the CBC’s The Way It Is when the prime minister asked me to come to his suite. How badly did we want Papandreou, he asked? I replied that he was precisely the man who could give us some stature and help build a great department, and that his coming to York and Canada would stand well in the eyes of the world. Perhaps not to some south of the border, he observed wryly. We talked for an hour about this and other matters and I left thinking I had his approval. Yet, several weeks later, Mitchell Sharp, the external affairs minister, was my guest on The Way It Is. As we washed up after the show, he quietly remarked, ’You know the prime minister is worried about the reaction in Washington.’ I replied again that it would look bad north of the border if we were prevented from hiring a man jailed by the reviled junta. On 7 April 1968, the day after Trudeau was elected Liberal leader, Papandreou visited York and spoke to a mass rally at Varsity Stadium on the University of Toronto campus organized by the committee for the restoration of democracy in Greece. The RCMP were on hand: in their much blacked-out report to Ottawa, they stated that both Kuhn and I had spoken at the rally. Papandreou accepted out offer and we had no problems with his visa. Later, in getting an honorary degree from York, after he had become premier of Greece, Papandreou said that many had written with congratulations and vague offers of employment, but York was the only university that had made him a firm offer. My only condition had been that at York he would teach economics not politics and that he keep a low profile in the city. What he did away from campus duty was his own business. He joined York in 1969, immediately became graduate director, and remained until 1976. On the whole he remained faithful to his promise, although he was quietly politically active in the city. In

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the Toronto Greek community I was either a hero or a villain. On one occasion when we were dining at a fashionable restaurant that I frequented, the owner said as we left ‘If I had known who your guest was, I would never have given you a table.’ By 1972–73, when I resigned as dean, we had hired more than 700 faculty; the full-time complement exceeded 500. About half were Canadians, a quarter American, and more than half, in the social sciences at least, had done their graduate work in the United States. We had benefited from the ‘brain rush,’ but for several years were accused and found guilty – and not only by the students – of being the willing tools of American capitalism and imperialism.

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6 ‘The Imperialists: It’s Good to Know They’re in Town’

In December 1968 in the Carleton University Faculty Council, Robin Mathews and James Steele introduced a motion deploring the increasing numbers of American faculty in Canadian universities. They estimated that 58 per cent of the Carleton faculty were American-born and that the percentage was increasing. Their motion demanded that the faculty become two-thirds Canadian, that only Canadians could hold administrative positions from chair to chancellor, fair competition for all appointments, and departmental justification for the hiring of a non-Canadian. They also demanded that the Canadian Association of University Teachers obtain faculty citizenship data from all universities. Soon afterwards, Mathews wrote to Davidson Dunton, the president of Carleton, that ‘Canadians may well decide to preside at the extinction of the Canadian university as a viable Canadian institution. They will not do so because I have failed to point to a situation which is critical. We took the wraps off the situation; we did it with responsibility. The general quality of response has been the glorious, memorable and deathless quotation from Time magazine: “I hope we can club these people to death when it comes up at the meetings.”’ And clubbed to death they were, as council voted them down 135 to 5 in a meeting marked by hostility and vitriol. Born in British Columbia, Mathews took his undergraduate degree at University of British Columbia and an MA in English from Ohio State. Although he did not finish doctoral studies at Toronto, he landed a position at the University of Alberta, where he quickly gained a reputation as a radical. He threatened to resign if two young philosophers were denied tenure and lived up to his threat. In the fall of 1968 he

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arrived at Carleton, where he met James Steele, a professor of English from the United Kingdom. Although the two men were very different, they made a formidable team. Mathews, vocal and articulate, loved the limelight and feasted on publicity. Cool and analytical and seldom given to rhetoric, Steele, a vocal critic of the Vietnam War, was alarmed by the American influence on Canadian foreign policy. However, Mathews was the voice and public face of the movement, and it was he who immodestly told Jack Granatstein many years later, ‘If we had not been born we would have had to be invented.’ Despite their resounding defeat at Carleton, Mathews and Steele had, in fact, triggered a debate that for several years was to involve students, faculties, senates, and the governments of Ontario and Canada. As it was clear that the Americanization-Canadianization issue would not go away, I decided to survey my faculty. The rough guide chosen was the country where faculty members had spent most of their life. The results of the survey were used by Linda Bohnen, a second-year student in political science, who published the figures in Excalibur on 23 January 1969 in an article entitled ‘The Americanization of York.’ My figures showed that, in round figures, 43 per cent of York faculty met the Canadian criteria, 30 per cent were classed as American, and 13 per cent British. The remainder, presumably, were of other foreign origin. However, in the Departments of Sociology, Psychology, and Philosophy, and even the Humanities Division, Americans outnumbered Canadians. Bohnen also observed that of the departmental chairs, 33 per cent were Canadian, 26 per cent American, 26 per cent British, and 13 per cent other. She interviewed David Hoffman, chair of the Social Science Division, a political scientist with degrees from McMaster, Toronto, and London, who stated that because Canada had neglected postgraduate education in the past and relied on imported scholars – largely British – there were simply not enough Canadians to fill the vacancies at the rapidly expanding universities. Moreover, he said, ‘there are just very few [graduate schools] that are equal competitors with the Americans. The American schools are better and the competition stiffer.’ He agreed that, all things being equal, he would hire Canadians over Americans – ‘but they are rarely, if ever, equal.’ Bohnen’s comments and conclusions were balanced and straightforward: On one thing everyone is agreed: Canadian universities and scholars won’t come into their own before the late 1970’s at the earliest. Only

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quotas will reduce the rate of foreigners before that, and even if it could be justified to a majority of administrators the price would doubtless be academic excellence. The use of Canadian texts can be encouraged and the Canadian point of view (if it can be defined) stressed – but as one professor pointed out you can’t ask foreigners to forget their backgrounds and set aside their memories. Department chairman can be on the lookout for bright young Canadians and universities try to raise the money to lure back to Canada those who have left. But time probably holds the only solution.

If the article was generally fair, the accompanying picture – a group of students raising the American flag over York superimposed on the famous photo of the American flag-raising at Iwo Jima (see figure 6.1) – was a warning of things to come. Bohnen was right: time did hold the only solution. That was the point I tried to make in a debate with Robin Mathews – as well as to question whether hiring Americans was a form of cultural genocide. Mathews and Steele had been in Toronto early the spring of 1969 to get media publicity: they were apparently unhappy with the treatment they received in several CBC interviews, and they demanded that the CBC brass provide yet another opportunity. Ross McLean, the producer of The Way It Is, of which I had been host or co-host since the fall of 1967, asked me if I would debate the issue with Mathews. The debate aired on 6 April 1969. Patrick Watson, co-host of the program, introduced the item and in both words and facial expressions, of which he was a master, revealed which side he was on. As in other instances, he was not on mine: Well it looks as though the Americans are taking over our universities. The chances are the next time a teaching job falls open at one of them an American will get it. Over the last eight years the proportion of Canadians teaching at Canadian universities has dropped from three-quarters to less than a half. At Simon Fraser only about thirty percent of the academic staff are Canadians. Well, is this anything to get concerned about? Is there anything uniquely Canadian to protect in our universities? What kind of a system of higher education do we want anyway? Do we want one that is increasingly North American, increasingly interchangeable with its counterpart south of the border, because that appears to be what we are getting. And what does this trend say about Canada as a distinctly Canadian country in the continental setting. And what about our students?

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Figure 6.1

The American conquest of York (Excalibur, 23 January 1969)

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Are we under any kind of obligation to ensure them teaching jobs if they want to stay here and teach? Well, John Saywell, who as dean of York University hires a good many professors each year, talks with Robin Mathews of Carleton University, who wants a plan for Canadianizing our universities.

The debate itself was inconclusive. Mathews did not deny that Canadian universities had what he called ‘problems in the past’ – that is, a paucity of graduate schools – ‘but we have the money and we can do some neat attractive things that address the Canadian situation.’ The neat attractive things in his mind were quotas on non-Canadians, because, with so many Americans in the faculty, ‘it becomes difficult to keep a sense of respect for the nation.’ I pressed him to determine whether it was the nationality or the course content that so upset him. It was obviously both. He also felt that the so-called Americanization of our universities threatened national survival. We never raised the question of alternatives, although Mathews, I think, believed that the PhD as the academic union card needed to be reexamined and discarded. The debate was surprisingly tame. Accused in an earlier CBC interview of being racist and anti-Semitic, Mathews clearly toned down his rhetoric. However, extracts from a speech reprinted in Excalibur on 29 January 1970 provided more insight into his language and ideology: Unless a distinct policy of repatriation [presumably of the university not of Canadians teaching in the United States!] begins now the culture will go as the economy has and Canada will be finished. Canada will suffer de facto integration with the United States. The branch-plant manager will be succeeded by the U.S. bulldozer and the small arms salesman. Violence will become as Canadian as the maple leaf. U.S. chauvinism, militarism, racism, cultural aggressiveness, political simple-mindedness, materialism and violent imperialism will take up residence in Canada.

On other occasions, he insisted that ‘colonial-minded’ Canadians, like me, who studied at Harvard were also a danger to the country: ‘They come back here from the U.S., many of them with their minds blown, especially in the Social Sciences where the American way of studying is to universalize every model but to universalize it in terms of what is unfortunately U.S. Manifest Destiny and U.S. Imperialism.’

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Over the next few months I prepared a new set of figures based on country of birth for arts faculty. Published in Excalibur on 8 January 1970, the statistics revealed that 35.3 per cent were American, 34.5 per cent Canadian, 13.5 per cent British, and 16.7 per cent other. Americanborn faculty constituted more than 40 per cent of the Departments of Political Science, Sociology, Philosophy, and Mathematics, and the Humanities Division. In the summer of 1970 Linda Bohnen, by then working for the Globe and Mail, called my office for a copy of the latest figures. Stan Fisher, senior information officer, personally took the figures to the paper and asked that the story be delayed for a day in order that someone at York could speak to Ross Munro, the reporter charged with the story. As Fisher wrote to Murray Ross on 3 July: ‘He [Munro] is not out to get York on this one … but I think any story that results will be a lot more favourable if someone in authority on campus can talk this one over with Munro.’ Murray did not reply, so Dennis Healy – the vice-president – and I talked to the reporter. In his story, published on 4 July, Munro cited the figures and quoted me as having said that ‘the slight plurality of U.S.-born teachers in [my] 15 departments reflects the rapid growth of York at a time when Canadian universities are not producing significant numbers of Ph.D. graduates ... I’ve been hiring teachers for the past seven years and I simply don’t believe there is this tremendous pool [of Canadian academics] they talk about ... We have canvassed graduate schools in this country year after year.’ Asked by the Toronto Telegram, I observed that my stats would also probably be true for Glendon, but that Canadians would be a higher percentage in the Faculties of Science and Administrative Studies. Asked by the Toronto Star whether I supported a quota on foreign-born faculty, as had been suggested by Mathews and Steele, I replied bluntly that it would be ‘ridiculous. It’s the worst kind of Canadian chauvinism. I wouldn’t have any responsibility for hiring faculty if I had to work on a quota system ... If we had not hired American-born and trained people, Canadian universities would be in a lot worse shape and they’re not in great shape now.’ Murray Ross was not pleased, although if he had read his mail he might have been able to stop the release of the figures. Instead, he sent me an angry memo stating that following a request from William Davis, the minister of university affairs, the Committee of University Presidents had agreed to issue a joint statement about American professors. My statement, he continued, was ‘not helpful’ because a study of all of York would provide a ‘more favourable picture [as I had

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stated] and other universities may feel we have broken trust.’ And, strangely, given Fisher’s involvement, Murray concluded that ‘I hope in the future we can clear such matters with Stan Fisher or myself before action is taken.’ Fisher apologized for any embarrassment the episode may have caused Murray but pointed out that the paper had Linda Bohlen’s old figures and merely wanted an updated version: ‘The Globe had taken the initiative. My actions merely changed the tone of the story.’ And, he added, whatever the headline over the York story in the Globe (‘Teachers from U.S. Dominate’) I think you will agree that the story as a whole was a lot more favourable than it might have been if we hadn’t arranged for quotes to complement the statistics, and both Dr. Healy and Dr. Saywell managed to stress again that we are the fastest growing university in Canada … which was something of a bonus.’ In my own response to Murray’s memo, after again explaining the background of the story, I turned to substance:

The issue of American-born and American-educated scholars at this and other Universities is a matter that should be squarely faced. The issue is a legitimate one and has to be argued legitimately. My position is clear and it is that there is not the supply of people to do the kind of work we, at York, are doing. Those educated in Canadian graduate schools are far more orthodox, far more rigid, disciplined and far less venturesome than the products of many American schools. We could not begin to offer inter-disciplinary programmes in Humanities, Social Science and Natural Science without drawing heavily on senior and junior American professors. Moreover, so far there has been nothing to suggest that American professors at York are birds of passage. Many of them have come as permanent residents. They have purchased homes with care. They are becoming involved in community activities. They have transferred the area of their research to matters of local and national concern. They do not strike me as emissaries of a foreign power, or as agents of collateral imperialism. I do not think that we have to apologize for the number of American scholars we attract, nor do I think we should attempt to bend over backwards in any attempt to disguise our statistics.

The statistics in chapter 5 speak for themselves. The only solution to the horrendous shortfall of faculty was importation, largely from the United States. As the University of Toronto told the Committee on Uni-

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versity Affairs (CUA) in 1967, ‘We have to be able to recruit in the United States since it would damage the entire academic community if we acquired all our needed staff from the other Canadian universities. In this we have had some success. Sixty per cent of the 106 new members of staff appointed in the first six months of 1966 came from the United States.’ The same was true of most Canadian universities. In 1962 about 36 per cent of new faculty in Canada had immigrated but in 1971–72 it had risen to an estimated 75 per cent. There was a push-pull phenomenon in recruitment from the United States. The civil rights movement, urban violence, the Vietnam War, widespread student unrest, and the draft led some Americans to seek us out, which made recruiting easier. But most often we sought them out – by the reputation of graduate schools, through the academic network and the network of those already at York, by their field of specialization, and by their scholarly reputation. After some minor skirmishes on the Americanization issue, Excalibur began its frontal attack on 8 January 1970. The front page said it all: stamped across the cover of the faculty of arts calendar were the words ‘Made in U.S.A.’ (figure 6.2). Inside was a two-page article ‘York Is a Branch Plant of U.S. Scholarship.’ On the back page, two rich and complacent men gloated over the York campus, under which ran the satirical caption, ‘The Imperialists. It’s Good to Know They’re in Town.’ From Winters College to the Humanities building – and practically everywhere in between – The Imperialists are there when you need them. Their assignment: to mold you into a compliant branch plant intellectual – capable of rationalizing Canada’s political, social and economic system, while having some of the skills needed to keep the shit machine running. They have what it takes: behavioural sciences, ivory towers, ‘value-free’ scholarship, meaningless lectures, politically castrated courses on ‘social problems,’ exams and the BA and BSc. The Imperialists have the know-how (and the cops) to make branch plant capitalism enslave us all – and make sure we will never, ever rebel. No matter where you are, The Imperialists are never far away. Agents have control of every academic department. All set to really mess up your head. With branch plant scholarship from American Empire. the american empire canada ltd.

‘The Imperialists’

Figure 6.2

The cover of the faculty calendar in Excalibur, 8 January 1970

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The publication of Mathews and Steele’s The Struggle for Canadian Universities in November 1969 had stimulated a good deal of academic and media comment and probably influenced the editors of Excalibur. Far more likely, however, was a change in the editorial board of the paper. In the fall of 1969 Bob Waller, a student at Glendon who had been editor-in-chief of Pro Tem, became managing editor. He had been very much involved in student radicalism at Glendon in the fall of 1968 and was one of the seven students featured by the Toronto Star in September 1968 under the headline ‘Student Power: These Men Lead Our Student Rebels.’ Now a CBC producer, Waller was then an enterprising editor. He had broken the story of the York presidential race in December 1969 (and still refuses to unmask Deep Throat). Waller was assisted by John King, now of the Globe and Mail, as managing editor of Excalibur. Of greater significance was the presence of Glen Williams, a 1969 Glendon arts student who had worked at Pro Tem. After graduation he was hanging around Excalibur while he decided what to do with his life. (Ultimately he took a PhD at York and is now a professor of political science at Carleton.) At the same time Paul Axelrod was running for president of the York Student Federation – partly at Waller’s urging – and won (with only a 19 per cent turnout) on a platform attacking the Americanization of York. Editorially, Waller endorsed Axelrod’s argument that there would be enough Canadians on faculty if York abandoned the necessity of ‘sterile academic qualifications’ as the only criteria and considered ‘life experience’ as well. Preparation of the January issue had obviously kept Waller, Williams and the staff busy over the Christmas holidays. Inside the paper was a full-page editorial, a four-page spread by Glen Williams that included an interview with me, and two more pages largely attacking me and deploring the statistics on the Arts Faculty. In our interview Williams argued that the stats showed that York was a branch plant. I countered with my standard argument that domestically grown graduate students could not fill our classrooms. I was then accused of believing that American schools were better than Canadian. I readily admitted, for example, that Berkeley was better in sociology than Toronto. Accused of using American criteria in judging the worth of a graduate school, I replied that ‘I am using the criteria that I as a Canadian would set up for a good graduate school, which I did for example when I decided where I would do my graduate work.’ Williams then got to what he believed was the critical issue and the

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obvious solution: ‘Don’t you think that Canadian criteria [presumably for hiring faculty or the reputation of a university] must be relevance to the Canadian fact, to the Canadian experience, to our life ... ? ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am not prepared to agree with you that relevance is the chief criterion.’ And that comment earned the heading, ‘John Saywell: Relevance to the Canadian Fact Should Not Be the Chief Criterion for Judging Canadian Schools.’ Williams’s two-page spread was a bright, mocking, and often amusing attack on the principles and arguments that I and others endorsed. Despite its frequent exaggerations and misrepresentations, his polemic and Waller’s editorial deserve a place in the literature on the ‘Canadianization’ debate. Why, asked the former, do I call York a branch plant of U.S. scholarship? Consider first an interview which I and other members of the excalibur staff had with Jack Saywell, dean of arts and science, General Manager of the Branch Plant and a strong candidate to be the next president of York (Canada) Ltd. Saywell is almost a stereotype of the colonial Uncle Tom. ‘No, sir , we shouldn’t advertise,’ ‘Yes, sir, a degree from Berkeley in the social sciences is worth more than a degree from any Canadian university’ and ‘No, sir, relevance to the Canadian fact should not be the chief criterion for judging Canadian schools’ ( Holy Cow! -ed) That a man of these qualities would be considered as president of a major university in any other country in the world, is to be very kind, laughable. Ah, well it’s the canadian way.

The language of Waller’s editorial – entitled ‘Canada Is a Whore for Captain America‘ – was picturesque and and the accompanying cartoon graphic (figure 6.3). Canadians, after 102 years of Confederation, should be ready to accept some hard truths about their ‘national character.’ Canadians are whores. The most successful and the most despicable whores in the world. We were faithful whores to the British (‘No truck nor trade with the Yankees’) until the 30s when the money being left under the pillow began to look a little skimpy. Suffering no noticeable heartbreak, we changed the lock on the door and called on Captain America to save our standard of living. In no time at all, we had dropped out pants, our borders, our timber,

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Figure 6.3 Excalibur, 8 January 1970

our minerals, our labour and pride for a share on the American Way of Life – radios, washing machines, televisions, and (sweet Jesus protect us) the automobile. The arrangement worked out so well that we became Captain America’s favourite whore ... The time came (1960), however, when Captain American’s Canadian pimps noticed that the Shit Machine (Canada) Ltd. was not running as efficiently as it could. ‘What we need,’ they squeaked, ‘are more skilled bodies.’ So they decided to expand the universities. This was not as simple as it first appeared. After all, one must be careful – a little knowledge is a dangerous thing ... So the branch plant pimps did what they always did when they faced a difficult problem – they caught the next plane south to ask Captain American for an answer ... The Captain stretched out his big hand, grabbing scholars from all over his polluted countryside. All kinds and sizes, like Noah filling the Ark. There were experts in behavioral sciences, proponents of ‘value-free’ scholarship and of ‘progress’ through technology. There were researchers of irrelevant data and liberals concerned with the solution of problems through ‘social engineering.’ There were even a few home-grown Canadians who had been manufactured in the big U.S. graduate schools.

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‘North to Canada,’ he commanded them, ‘The Whore House needs Branch Plant Intellectuals. Be fruitful and multiply.’ And they did; the apologists of the Whore House are at York, covering us, smothering us. They are here – all around ... excalibur is tired of living in a capitalist Czechoslovakia. We want to find a way to build York into a clear hard mirror that will show Canadians the extent of their degradation.

The editorial then listed three non-negotiable demands: ‘Why nonnegotiable? Because when you are being choked to death there is no time for compromise.’ The three demands were: 1. Adoption of the Two-File Recruiting Policy. The editorial advocated separating job applications into Canadian and foreign files. ‘Only if no qualified Canadian is available will the foreign file be opened.’ 2. Adoption of Canadian Courses, emphasizing political repression, U.S. control of the Canadian economy and the unchecked exploitation of natural resources by branch-plant capitalists, Canadian complicity in U.S. imperialism, and a course entitled ‘The Process of Cultural Genocide,’ which the paper described as ‘a study of the realities of the “civilizing” mission of Canada’s whites and its impact upon Indians.’ 3. Resignation of John T. Saywell: ‘Jack Saywell must resign immediately as Dean of York’s Faculty of Arts and Science. It is impossible to tolerate a man with his opinions in such a high position ... ‘Relevance to the Canadian fact must be the criteria for judging York and every other Canadian university. ‘We will have no more Uncle Toms.’ On 22 January Excalibur printed a long letter to the editor from students in my course Social Science 372, The Canadian State: The Problem of Viability,’ attacking me and my course as evidence of the Americanization of mind and content. Among the writers were some of the more radical students in the faculty, including Paul Axelrod. Their letter made clear what a Canadian course had to be about: We cannot dissociate our restlessness about this course from our disappointment that we are not dealing with the reality of Canada in the 1960s

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– documented by royal commissions and by a few courageous scholars – is that our country’s economic development, our role in the world, our education system and our culture are dominated by the United States. No one disputes that this is the reality of Canada, but we continue to study the problems of Quebec, the dominant elite, federalism, poverty, regionalism, etc., as if they were unconnected with reality we take for granted without critically examining it ... These two fundamental realities – the re-colonization of Canada and Quebec in the U.S. empire and the possibility of independence – [are] the context in which the problems of Canadian viability can be grasped and acted upon by us.

The students requested that all lecturers should declare their personal viewpoints. I agreed to let them take several classes to examine the ‘real’ problems of Canadian viability. They got their free time, but the bulk of the class simply stayed away, and the noble experiment died at the hands of its supposed allies. Two weeks later, 12 February, the front page was again devoted to ‘York’s Americanization.’ Glen Williams had carefully examined the calendar description of the sixteen first-year general education courses in humanities and social science. The results were stunning. Overall, the required texts numbered 150 books and reprints. In only five courses were there required Canadian texts: John Porter’s Vertical Mosaic, Marshall McLuhan’s Understanding Media and The Medium Is the Message, Northrop Fry’s The Educated Imagination, and C.B. Macpherson’s The Real World of Democracy. I was shocked and thoroughly agreed with Waller’s editorial ‘Five Canadian Books really Aren’t Enough.’ ‘It really can’t be enough to contain the totality of Canadian thought, experience, history and environment. You are robbing us, professors of York, with your talk of “general education.”’ The explanation, of course, was obvious: ‘York is a branch plant of U.S. scholarship, with U.S. academic standards, U.S. teachers, U.S. textbooks, and Canadians who fawn on the academic colossus of the American Empire.’ The real explanation was that Canadian scholarship, like Canadian graduate schools and Canadian educational publishing, was really in its infancy or at least adolescence. However, I did speak with the chairs of the two divisions and insisted that we could and must do better. Although the day of collections of essays and books of readings lay in the future, I suggested that a diligent search

‘The Imperialists’

Figure 6.4 Excalibur, 12 February 1970

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through scholarly journals and selective chapters from books could remedy some of the deficiencies. By the summer of 1969 the issue of Americanization had moved from the campus into the political arena. The question first came up in the Ontario legislature in November 1969, when Liberal MPP Tim Reid began his crusade against the Americanization of Canadian universities and of York in particular. Reid had come to York in 1964 as assistant to the president and a part-time lecturer in economics. He was a graduate of Toronto with a BLit from Oxford and an MA from Yale. At one point he had asked me about his future at York. As I recall, I answered that I thought his degrees were adequate but that in the long run it would depend on his commitment to scholarly research. ‘I thought you would say that,’ he replied. In 1965–66 he took a leave of absence and was elected to the legislature in 1967. At Queen’s Park he became Liberal educational critic. William Davis, the Conservative minister of university affairs, had already responded to the attack by Robin Mathews, by asking the Committee of University Presidents to provide figures on the issue. In June 1970 he stated that, on the basis of information supplied by the presidents, the percentage of Canadians among the 8,000 Ontario faculty ranged from a high of 78 per cent to a low of 48 per cent but was only 55 per cent in the social sciences, where there was a dearth of Canadian graduates. That was simply presidential obfuscation, said Reid, who demanded a Canadian/American breakdown by department in every university. In October he was on the attack again, demanding the statistics that would reveal ‘a really rotten state of affairs,’ where American-dominated departments hired only friends from Harvard and Chicago. In May 1971 he specifically used York’s Sociology Department as a particularly intolerable example of the American takeover. Only six members of the department – 18 per cent – were Canadian and there were no Canadian courses. (He might have added that Toronto’s English Department was almost as bad, with fifteen courses dealing with American literature or content and one on Canadian literature.) The Committee on University Affairs requested that in their 1971 submission each university provide data on country of residence of all faculty prior to appointment, citizenship at birth, and country of first and last degrees. York’s brief, containing only aggregate figures for faculty and students, was considered by senate in two heated meetings

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on 22 and 24 September 1970. President Slater, the student senators, and I urged that the figures should be released. Others – Canadians and Americans alike – vehemently argued that publication of the data, particularly citizenship, was an infringement of academic freedom and a violation of the Human Rights Code. After four hours of debate, senate approved a motion that ‘a statement be prepared for Senate’s approval, to be submitted to CUA in York’s Supplementary Brief, setting forth Senate’s reasons for not submitting citizenship data.’ On 19 October 1970, when we met with CUA, Douglas Wright, the head of CUA, made it clear that he wanted the data and was determined to get it. Slater called a special senate meeting for 21 October and by a vote of 39–12–3 senate approved a motion to submit the figures except for citizenship at birth, ‘since York does not wish to suggest the existence of two classes of Canadian citizenship – that acquired at birth and that acquired subsequently.’ Figures released in December 1970 of the new appointments for 1969–70 at York certainly gave Mathews, Reid, and CUA more ammunition. Of the 136 appointments in all faculties, 42.8 per cent were Canadians, 31.2 American, 11 British, and 14 other. However, 65 of the 136 new faculty had obtained their senior graduate degree in the United States, compared with 29 in Canada. Of the Canadians hired, one-third had done their graduate work in the United States. In the Faculty of Arts, the total breakdown, including new appointments, was 42 per cent Canadian, 31 American, 14 British, and 13 other. Only in philosophy and sociology did Americans outnumber Canadians. By January 1971, William Davis had concluded that some action was required on his part. In a letter to the presidents, he chose to focus on hiring: I am very conscious of the fact that a university must give full consideration to a teaching candidate’s record of scholarship and achievement as well as his nationality when considering him for an appointment. I am also aware of the shortage of qualified Canadians that has existed in many disciplinary areas, particularly the social sciences, in recent years. Nevertheless, I feel that most citizens of Ontario would be reassured if they could feel that academic openings in our Province were being offered, wherever possible, to qualified Canadian candidates and that the overall balance in faculty numbers was becoming more markedly Cana-

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dian. Your co-operation in working towards these objectives during the current period of faculty hiring would be much appreciated.

We discussed the letter in the president’s senior policy committee and concurred in Davis’s sentiments. On 8 March President Slater released a statement ‘Canadian Faculty and Canadian Studies,’ which reflected our views. Canadians should be given preference in hiring ‘other things being equal’; there should not be an intellectual tariff wall around Ontario universities; faculty should be judged on their academic competence; in fields in which Canadian ‘data, problems or institutions are particularly critical, that ordinary good standards of professional competence shall be assumed to require all faculty regardless of origin or citizenship, to possess a knowledge of Canadian data, problems and institutions’; and finally that ‘the normal practice will be for all new academic posts to be advertised adequately in Canada, and outside of Canada in places where Canadians are trained and generally in the profession.’ In May 1971 senate instructed the curriculum committee that it should monitor ‘policy matters of a curricular nature, including the specific issue of Canadian content, and shall be particularly solicitous of student opinion.’ However, hiring for the 1971–72 academic year was well underway or almost over by the spring of 1971. Figures released in November 1971 for our CUA brief showed that of the 187 new faculty at York, appointed between September 1970 and September 1971, 53 per cent were Canadian, 27 per cent American, and 8 per cent British. As of 1 November 1971, 52 per cent of all full-time faculty at York were Canadian and 27 per cent American. Data released for arts in November 1971 showed that the percentages in the humanities fields were 49 per cent Canadian and 31 per cent American, and in the social sciences 54 and 24 per cent. In December 1971 the Davis government established the Select Committee on Economic and Cultural Nationalism. By January 1973 the committee had decided what information it needed and demanded that it be provided within two weeks. The information, broken down by faculty and department, included citizenship, year of appointment, visa status, country of first and last degree, rank and principal subject taught – indeed everything but height, weight, and, not surprising for the early 1970s, gender. Counsel for the Select Committee made clear its legal rights and its intention to secure the information, but the Council of Ontario Universities (COU), the successor to the Commit-

‘The Imperialists’ Table 6.1

Origin of faculty, York and other Ontario universities, 1971–3 Canada

U.S.

UK

Other

1971–72 1972–73 1971–72 1972–73

52.5 55.8 46.1 49.2

20.0 19.5 23.8 25.6

11.7 10.7 8.3 8.8

15.8 14.0 21.4 14.3

Social sciences Ontario 1971–72 1972–73 York 1971–72 1972–73

51.9 55.2 48.3 52.1

27.5 28.4 23.2 29.7

7.3 6.7 7.0 8.8

13.3 9.7 21.5 9.4

Humanities Ontario York

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tee of University Presidents, agreed to try to persuade the government that there was no need to gather data that identified individual faculty members. At York’s president’s council on 2 February 1972 we considered both the request of the select committee and the response of the COU. I stated that we should answer the request in a straightforward way and would hate to see York in favour of anything but full disclosure and that, while we had to support the COU position, we should not take the lead in resistance. For the moment, we were bound by the senate resolution that data should be aggregated in such a way that could not lead to the identification of individual faculty members. In the end, the information was submitted in a form that did not identify individual members. Despite many flaws and incalculables caused by retirement, resignations, and acquisitions of Canadian citizenship, the data published in the Interim Report of the Select Committee in 1973 were roughly indicative of the extent of the ‘American take-over’ in terms of faculty if not course content (see table 6.1). York’s figures for specific disciplines included those of Glendon, Atkinson, and administratives studies, as well as arts, but our faculty was by far the largest, and the numbers are probably a close approximation to the percentages in arts. The survey also revealed that many of the Canadians had taken their last degree in the United States. My own rough count of country of last degree for all faculty of professorial rank in each department indicated that those with Canadian graduate degrees were in a minority. The numbers for degrees taken in Canada, the United States, and, where

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significant, the United Kingdom were: economics 3, 13, 5; English 8, 16, 15; history 6, 23, 7; humanities 4, 21; math 8, 17; philosophy 0, 6, 8; physical education 2, 6 ; political science 4, 24, 3 ; psychology 16, 33, 5; sociology-anthropology 2, 25, 5. In the Arts Faculty as a whole, 20 per cent held a Canadian highest degree, 57 per cent an American, 19 per cent a British, and 5 per cent other. In history, 10 of the 18 Canadians had taken their highest degree in the United States and 4 in the United Kingdom. In political science, 7 of the 12 Canadians had taken their highest degree in United States and 2 in the United Kingdom. In anthropology and sociology, 10 of the 11 Canadians had taken their highest degree in the United States. The figures were a blunt indictment of the state of graduate education in Canada and our dependence – except in the natural sciences – on others. As the Select Committee stated in 1973, ‘The present state of the development of graduate programs, and particularly doctoral programs at universities in Ontario and Canada falls well below national respectability.’ Among their ten major recommendations were three urging the necessity of developing the graduate capacity of Ontario universities. They also recommended a rapid program of Canadianization. Each university was substantially to increase its recruitment of Canadians. The universities were to make full disclosure on hiring. If there were not substantial progress within three years, the committee recommended that 80 per cent of new faculty be Canadian citizens and 70 per cent from among those who had done most of their graduate work in Canada. Within five years all administrative officers, from department heads to chancellors, were to be Canadian citizens. A statement of principles and recommendations by the Council of Ontario Universities, which it had submitted to the Select Committee, was much more reflective of most academic opinion. Published in March 1973, the recommendations included increased support for graduate studies, wide advertisement of vacancies, and transparency in hiring policies. The statement of principles, however, was a rejection of much of what the Select Committee recommended. The council felt that Canadian experience or knowledge might or might not be important in some areas of research and teaching, and that it was not necessarily attached to citizenship. The council asserted that the universities needed the enrichment of many cultures and it was ‘desirable that other countries be generously represented on both faculty and student body.’ Moreover, if Canadian graduate schools produced enough PhDs to meet the total demand and if Ontario universities strength-

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ened programs in areas where ‘shortages remain,’ the percentage of Canadians would gradually increase. ‘It should be understood however that the change will take place only over a number of years because, as a result of a slowdown in enrolment growth, relatively few additions are being made to the faculty in any one year.’ It was ironic that the first PhDs to emerge as a result of increased government support, which began in the early 1960s but was diminished by 1970 – like the three York doctorates 1973 – faced the toughest job market since the 1950s. Time did hold the only solution, but it was to be at best a partial solution that did not meet some of the Select Committee’s recommendations. In spite of tighter immigration restrictions in the late 1970s and 1980s, which compelled the universities in one way or another to prove that no Canadian was available before hiring a foreigner, Canadian universities continued to need Americans and other non-Canadians. In many areas Canadian graduate schools either did not offer doctoral programs or the programs were obviously inferior to those available elsewhere. Times, and perspectives, change. When announcing the establishment of the Canadian Research Chairs program in 2000, Prime Minister Chrétien said that ‘by retaining top-level researchers at our universities and attracting others from beyond our borders‘ the program ‘will help Canada stay at the forefront of the global knowledge-based economy.’ And in 2002 Allan Rock boasted that of the 532 new Canadian Research Chairs created since 2000 60 were filled by American and other foreign scholars. And by then most of the new imperialists we had hired thirty years earlier had retired, and the Canadian identity, though still undefinable, seemed safe.

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7 Students: Prisoners, Clients, or Partners?

One reason, but by no means a major one, why I did not go to Berkeley in 1958 was the strange feeling that it was on the verge of some kind of upheaval. The departmental secretary there whispered that my practice of working in my office with the door open and a welcome mat out for students was the subject of some concern: students might expect others to follow my open-door practice. But students, particularly graduate students, welcomed the informal opportunity to come in and talk. A more compelling reason was that the McCarthy-era witch hunts were very much alive at Berkeley. No off-campus political speakers were permitted, including Adlai Stevenson in 1956, and political groups were monitored. By 1964 Berkeley was much in the news with the free speech movement and riots, and Mario Savio and Jack Weinberg had become heroes to some students. By 1967 various movements there and elsewhere had turned violent over the Vietnam War and civil rights. The late 1960s were years of unprecedented political activism throughout the United States, Europe, and Japan, and to some extent in Canada. Issues differed widely in time and place, but in many cases the basic question was what role students played in their education. I was not prescient, but I sensed that at Berkeley there was a dangerous disjuncture between students and faculty, and between the administration and both groups. Returning to the calm of the University of Toronto, I noticed little discontent among the well-disposed, wellbehaved, and usually well-off students, apart from the usual grumbling about too much work, and too severe grading, and the occasional shared comment among them about incompetent profs. There was cer-

Students: Prisoners, Clients, or Partners?

Figure 7.1 Excalibur, 7 October 1971

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tainly no demand – among my students at least, both undergraduate and graduate – for representation on the governing bodies of the university or on a union to determine the content or ideology of courses. At York in 1963, even after the infamous Pro Tem issue attacking Murray Ross, the students did not seem politicized and in the first few years made no demands for representation on any governing body. But once it was suggested that the students should be partners, and not merely clients or customers, the university entered a new era. At York, at least, the new era began in 1966 with the observations and recommendations of the report of the Duff-Berdahl commission on university government in Canada: The subject of the relationship of students to university government is one which has only recently received serious consideration. But we saw enough symptoms of student dissatisfaction with their self-perceived status as ‘customers’ of the universities to know that there will be increasing demands made in Canada for their elevation to partners ( albeit unequal ones) in the ‘community of scholars and students.’ Some variation of the Berkley disturbances may possibly occur in Canada during the coming years. The issue, then, is not whether to welcome or stifle this new wave of student sentiment, but rather how to develop channels into which it can flow constructively.

The report’s recommendations were hardly revolutionary. They included student–faculty committees at the departmental and faculty level which would meet once or twice a year, with the students chosen by their peers. There was a danger, the commissioners confessed, that the choice of students might ‘produce intransigent types not amenable to rational dialogue’ or attempts to remove unpopular teachers for non-academic reasons, but the danger would be much less if the committees were established as a regular part of the university and not in response to a crisis. They were not convinced, however, that students should sit on the senate or the board. To assess the Duff-Berdhal report, York’s senate established a study committee, of which I was a member. Among many submissions was an intelligent and reasonable one from the York Student Federation (YSF). Its brief contended that students ‘must be active participants in the educational process if that process is to be a meaningful one.’ It also stressed the great advantages in a ‘blurring of the sharp divisive line’ existing between students, faculty, and administration. ‘Direct

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student participation,’ the YSF insisted, ‘would alleviate student mistrust and misunderstanding of many decisions that are reached.’ In particular the federation recommended student representation on the senate–board committee then discussing university government, direct representation on the senate and board and their committees, direct representation on faculty council and its committees, and faculty–student departmental committees. On 1 June 1967 the study committee made its preliminary report to senate. The committee rejected the idea of student membership on senate, which several of us had favoured, but, with unbelievable naiveté, suggested that a member of senate be elected by the students to bring matters relating to their interests before senate. The committee further recommended the establishment of a new body consisting of board, senate, and student representatives as a forum for the exchange of information. Finally, it stated that ‘students should be urged to consult with departments (and vice versa), since it is at that level that action in most matters of Senate jurisdiction relevant to student concerns is effectively initiated.’ However, among the amendments in senate was one hotly contested motion that a reformed senate should have three student representatives. Not only did the motion pass, but another amendment in November increased the number to five. Meanwhile, buttons reading student power had appeared on campus, and in Excalibur on 20 October 1967 a would-be radical leader, Glen Williams (later active in the anti-American movement), had declared that while a student strike might not unite students and would widen the split between them and the faculty and administration, it was a weapon they should not be afraid to use as the only alternative to achieve their ends. After the Duff-Berdahl study committee’s refusal to consider direct student representation, I had submitted a notice of motion to be considered by the first faculty council meeting of the 1967–68 academic year, on 20 September 1967, which asked that council approve in principle student representation on council ‘and/or’ its committees and, if approved, that council establish a special committee to consider ways and means to implement it. The motion carried, with three dissenting votes. On 12 October a strong committee, chaired by Harold Kaplan and including Ed Broadbent, soon to become an NDP member of Parliament, presented a balanced but positive report that provided the foundation and context for all subsequent legislation. During its deliberations, it was evident that the committee shared three assumptions:

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(1) that a university is an intellectual community in which predominant authority and power should rest with the faculty; (2) that because a university is both intellectually oriented and a community, students ought to share to some subordinate degree the responsibility for making decisions that affect their intellectual development and the daily life of the university; (3) that students should sit on faculty council and have all rights of membership except the right to hold an executive position, to serve as committee chair, and to participate in committee proceedings that are judicial in nature.

Although the majority of the committee was committed to the view that extending student participation in decision making was desirable, none of its members had firm views on any matter of detail, nor did they think that students should have anything more than minority influence as legislators on any matter directly pertaining to the academic life of the university. However, the committee recommended approval of the ‘principle of institutionalized participation by students in the governance of the Faculty of Arts and Science.’ Students would sit on council, their numbers equal to 10 per cent of faculty members, with the rights of all members except that they could not hold executive positions on council or its committees and could not sit on committees of a juridical nature when individual cases were being considered A new standing committee on faculty–student relations, with equal membership, would make recommendations on any academic issues that affected relations between faculty and students. Finally, the committee recommended that each department, division, and program create a faculty–student liaison committee, with equal membership, to consider matters of academic policy. The report was considered by a special council meeting on 20 October 1967. There was considerable opposition to the term ‘institutionalized’ participation because it appeared to have basic structural or ideological meanings. Nonetheless, after a lengthy debate, the motion passed 45–23 with 6 abstentions. Having lost the initial vote, opponents turned to the details of student participation. Debate, often heated, continued for over six hours in three meetings of council. Ultimately, the vote was reversed, and the report’s recommendation was defeated on 14 December by a vote of 26–29. The report was dead. According to the council minutes, ‘Dean Saywell spoke to the question, suggesting that the university might well have to face the possi-

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bility of being immobilized by the students if nothing constructive is done to improve present methods of university government.’ I then proposed an amendment to the section proposing a committee on faculty–student relations (FSR), which provided that a new committee with the same name, composed of five students and five faculty, report no later than April 1968 as to how the principle of ‘institutionalized’ student representation could be implemented. The FSR committee reported on 11 April 1968 to a thinly attended council (it being after the end of classes). The substance was similar, but the recommendations were more detailed regarding student election and membership on standing committees, including undergraduate studies (CUS). Students would still be excluded from judicial committees, and there remained similar prohibitions about students in executive positions on council or as council representatives on senate. The function of the committee on faculty–student relations was to continually review the structure and effectiveness of student participation in faculty government, to assist communication between council and the YSF, and to act as an advisory board to departmental faculty– student liaison committees at the discretion of the department. After a few half-hearted attempts to dilute them, the recommendations were approved as council legislation. In a long and rationally argued letter two weeks later, the YSF opposed the restrictions on student membership on the judicial committees and their ineligibility for election to the senate. As their academic commissioner wrote, ‘whether the judicial actions be policymaking or administrative, important or trivial, I think it would be most beneficial – both to the Council and the student body – if a student point of view were represented in all proceedings of the Council. A student would very often attack a problem from a different perspective, and may even prevent the Council from making an “o’er’ hasty decision”.’ Soon after the fall term began, the YSF added that it wanted general open meetings of council, the seating of one student from each unit in the faculty on CUS, and the establishment of faculty–student relations committees in every teaching unit. In the letter to Dean Willard Piepenburg, the associate dean of arts, the academic commissioner asked ‘is there any legislative means by which the third motion can be enforced? If so, is it under the jurisdiction of the Faculty Council? And if not, can you suggest a means to have it acted upon, or at least considered?‘ These concerns and others were referred to the FSR commit-

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tee. In October 1968, the turnout for the first student election was about 20 per cent, a result variously described as reflecting student indifference (my interpretation) or a rejection of tokenism (the perspective of the radicals). In December the FSR committee recommended that council meetings be open unless the majority of members voted that they be held in camera and that, with permission, any member of the faculty, student body, administration, and general public, including the press, have the right to speak. In February 1969 council accepted a committee motion that ‘each department of the Faculty of Arts and Science shall structure itself in some clearly defined way, incorporating the principle of direct representation by members of the department (i.e., all faculty members and students registered in degree programmes in that department) in the area of policy planning, curriculum and student affairs.’ Each department was to ‘prepare a proposal which integrates all members of the department into the decision-making process’ and submit it to the FSR committee as soon as possible. In March faculty council approved student membership on all judicial committees, with the proviso that if a student were involved in the matter before the committee, that student would recuse him/herself from that meeting. The prohibitions against students on the executive committee and as chair of council were discontinued (a student was chair in 1972). The students themselves had urged that they be elected directly rather than by the YSF. With the removal of the prohibition against election to senate in October 1971, there was little left but the absolute parity demanded by student radicals more interested in ideology and politics than in good governance. (At the University of Toronto in the spring of 1971 the student demand for parity in faculty council resulted in altercations with the police and disruptions of council meetings.) Some students at York realized that it was at the departmental level where they could best advocate for their interests in course content, curriculum, and grading. In November 1968 history students had elected a committee to negotiate their membership on departmental committees but had rejected a motion by Larry Goldstein (a radical student leader and critic of mine) for parity on all committees. In the 22 October 1970 issue of Excalibur, YSF president Paul Axelrod insisted that restructuring government was one of the most fundamental issues students faced. The Axelrod article asked for ‘“parallel structures” ...

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Students of the department would be able to define their aims and goals (without fear of academic penalization) and elect committees that parallel those of faculty to represent those interests.’ They could then negotiate as equals. This position was consistent with Axelrod’s platform in his successful presidential election campaign in February 1970: he wanted the YSF to consider withdrawing all student representatives from administration–faculty committees. ‘Students have no power,’ he stated. The committees are unrepresentative and ‘we’re getting nothing done.’ His position essentially was a demand for the university as a partnership. The senate and the board had also been examining their structure in light of the Duff-Berdhal report. In October 1968 the board reluctantly agreed to the appointment to the board of two senators from a list of four elected by senate. John Adams, then YSF president, described these two new board members as ‘Nigger Kings’ and declared that the students would not accept membership under similar conditions. But the board itself did not believe that students should or could be members. In an interview with Excalibur on 21 October, Peter Scott, the board chairman, was condescending and dismissive. Students would be bored at board meetings, he opined. Moreover, he would like to see ‘much more maturity of thought of what they want in university. They want too much, too fast with no eye for the consequences. Student power destroys.’ The board, Scott lectured, was composed of men and women of broad and deep experience and although time was money to business people, they donated it freely to university. The students had more success with senate. In February 1968 it approved for senate membership five students selected by the YSF and the college councils acting in concert; in 1971 the number was increased to seventeen. In May 1973 the board appointed a student proposed by a caucus of student senators. The most striking illustration of demand and response was the student demand for membership on the 1969–70 search committee for a new president. Originally left out, the students demanded and ultimately secured parity with the board and senate on this committee. On the whole, student pressure for some form of partnership in university government was exercised rationally and legitimately. But constitutions are not the stuff of which empowering protest movements are made. The real stuff was found in the fall of 1967, when some teaching assistants at Simon Fraser were arrested after protest-

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ing the suspension of a high school teacher as a violation of freedom of speech. Simon Fraser remained a hotbed of student and faculty radicalism, which ultimately led to a general strike of students and faculty in the Department of Political Science, Sociology and Anthropology for ten days in September 1969. Throughout 1968 there were student protests across the country. Activists differed from each other in ideology and purpose, ranging from the usually benign Canadian Union of Students (CUS) through the New Left Caucus and Students for a Democratic Society. In September 1968 the Education Committee of CUS charged that the universities were imperialist institutions and demanded student control of the curriculum and the abolition of what they called the ‘guild professionalism concept.’ At the University of Alberta in October 1968, students wearing gas masks and shouting ‘Thought Police’ invaded the Faculty Club. In November 1968 McGill students occupied the Political Science Department, set up pickets outside classrooms, created counter-courses, and demanded at least one-third representation on all departmental committees (after the faculty had rejected parity). In the fall of 1969 the New Left Caucus at the University of Toronto engaged in classroom provocations, challenged the ideological orientation of some social science courses, and rejected the ‘professionalization’ of graduate work with its requirement of comprehensive exams, time limits, and rigid deadlines. The protests were real enough but, according to one authority then on the scene, the ‘majority of students, in fact (much to the dismay of political organizers), eschewed direct political action, and among students themselves there were many conflicts between radical, moderates, and conservatives.’ The authority was none other than Paul Axelrod, student radical and president of the YSF (1970–71), writing in his book Scholars and Dollars (1982). Axelrod’s many attacks on me certainly helped to make my life more interesting. He knew only too well that the protest movements at York, at least, were the product of a few kindred spirits who shared in some way an opposition to the hierarchical structure of the university, the lack of real student control over their education (despite the presence of ‘token’ senators and councillors), the alleged complicity of the university in the propagation of the capitalist religion, and the invasion of the American imperialists. In some ways (given the ultimate object of a few leaders), the most extreme student protest at York occurred at the Glendon campus in

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September 1968. In August in what was termed ‘Liber-action 68,’ the student council had issued a manifesto urging students not to register for courses during the first few weeks of registration, but to create ‘people-generated courses’ without credit or examinations. In September another manifesto, ‘The University Is for People,’ spelled out more clearly the objectives of Jim Park, the student council president, and a few others. They apparently saw the manifesto as a first step in the creation of a truly ‘free’ university. The manifesto called for the abolition of all councils and the creation of a college government elected by all members of the college, the abolition of any formal course structure and of any form of evaluation, a bill of rights enabling anyone to pursue any form of education, and the removal of all symbols of social stratification, such as faculty washrooms. The Manifesto troubled the Glendon administration and soon attracted the attention of the downtown press. Bob Waller, editor of Pro Tem, told the Toronto Star that ‘it’s sort of a disorientation program. We want to break the students out of their high-school conditioning so they can decide whether they want to be assimilated into the present university or whether they want to change it to meet their needs.’ The paper also ran a full-page feature story headlined ‘Student Power: These Men Lead Our Student Rebels,’ which featured seven students including Waller and Park of Glendon. The seven ‘were unanimous in their criticism of the university. They feel that it has abandoned its function as a place of learning and a search for truth and is merely a knowledge factory for an unjust society.’ But the movement at Glendon soon lost momentum. Students were either less interested in confrontation than education, or were apathetic or afraid of the consequences. Most registered, and some first- and second-year students simply transferred to the York campus. For a time the tone on the York campus was much milder than that at Glendon. The 10 October 1968 issue of Excalibur, edited by Ross Howard, now a successful journalist-consultant in Vancouver, had a full-page slogan this university belongs to the student! dig it (fig. 7.2).’ Howard’s editorial a week earlier fleshed out the meaning of those words, and was a plea for the university to be an agent of change, ‘the most direct area of confrontation between the new forces of society, and the old social and cultural demands that oppose them.’ But apparently not at York. ‘At York there isn’t any confrontation between the old and the new. There isn’t even anything very new. Just thousands of happy children and jolly faculty hashing out the old

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Figure 7.2 Excalibur, 10 October 1968

stories, and filling in the correct forms on the computer cards.’ Although students sit on senate and council, they do not participate fully in the life of the university – there is no ‘real effort by the students to engage in change.’ Professors, who should be the agency for change,

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‘seem really to have lost the desire to see something new come alive. They seem to have lost the belief that the new ideas are here, and come sooner, and more clearly, when urged and openly welcomed.’ As I look back, I believe Ross Howard was right. By 1968 the Committee of University Presidents had concluded that there was a danger of campus unrest and protest, either imported or indigenous. In September 1969 they released a discussion paper, ‘Order on the Campus,’ to be used by each university as a working paper for the development of policy. The paper referred to the confrontations and violence on North American campuses. The focus of protests in Ontario had been on questions of university government and curriculum, and the universities would continue to be responsive to student concerns in these areas. But they ‘will not carry on discussions or make changes in the face of threat or other forms of coercion.’ There were two kinds of illegitimate disturbances, those that destroy the ‘normal processes’ of the universities’ academic functions and those that, ‘whatever their other characteristics,’ involve violence or the threat of violence. Among the unacceptable activities, as borrowed from a Harvard statement, was the ‘deliberate interference with academic freedom and freedom of speech (including not only disruption of a class but also interference with any speaker properly invited by any section of the university community to express his view).’ Due process ranged from hearings before a senate–student committee, to warnings, to suspension and, if necessary, to reliance on the police. The report was immediately denounced by students at York and Glendon. The report, wrote Bob Waller, the new editor of Excalibur, ‘by raising the spectre of violence and destruction of property on campus in a province where none has occurred, the university presidents create an atmosphere of hysteria and suspicion, not the atmosphere of “mutual respect” they claim in the report to be important,’ (25 September 1969). At York and Glendon, as at Toronto, mass meetings were followed by demands for the repudiation of the report. Murray Ross was ill. In his place Vice-president Dennis Healy issued a formal statement, read in senate on 25 September , that ‘I agreed to its circulation on the clear understanding that the statement did not propose to speak for any university, was not binding on any university.’ The report, he concluded, was irrelevant because the Laskin Committee at York had completed its hearings and was about to submit its report.

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The committee chaired by Bora Laskin, a judge of the Ontario Court of Appeal and member of the York board, was composed of two other board members, three faculty, and four students. Its lengthy report, Freedom and Responsibility in the University, was released in November 1969. Largely concerned with rights and responsibilities, it dealt mainly with process and made little attempt to define behaviour – particularly in the classroom – that could result in disciplinary hearings and sanctions. Released only as a basis for discussion, the report caused little faculty or student criticism until March 1970, when sections on student conduct were included in the university calendars. The students demanded an immediate retraction and accused President Ross of misrepresentation and deceit. I assured faculty council on 12 March that the general information in all calendars was prepared by the central administration, ‘within whose jurisdiction the decisive authority legally resides, not by officers of the individual faculties.’ With little opposition, council moved that it ‘deems it inappropriate for the central administration of the University to have indicated that the Laskin Report is University policy currently in force, and wished to place on record that neither it nor its officers were consulted.’ Ten days later Ross released a public statement clarifying the university’s position that the report was not policy but that he, in the exercise of his statutory functions, would be guided by the process outlined in the report, which in effect limited his powers, until policy had been finally determined. Murray might have added that the student conduct section was printed because John Becker, assistant vice-president of student services, assumed it had been approved and mistakenly published it in the calendars. The president’s explanation and clarification was accepted by council and senate – and by the students. Even if, as Paul Axelrod later noted, most York students were not interested in radical change, the mood at York seemed to shift in 1969. The major evidence of change was in Excalibur (perhaps because it was about the only overt expression of student opinion). In the fall of 1969 Bob Waller, a Glendon student and editor of Pro Tem, was elected editor of Excalibur, which indicated a desire of its staff to radicalize the paper. The tone of Waller’s editorials was more like a declaration of war against the faculty and the ‘system,’ compared to those of his predecessor Ross Howard, in support of student representation and

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moderate activism. As it turned out, the easy target for Excalibur, and the activities of the newly founded York Student Movement (YSM) attacking the master–apprentice learning philosophy and right-wing ideology of the faculty and the anti-imperialist movement, was me. The attack began during orientation week in 1969. I agreed to participate in a ‘teach-in,’ the ‘Faces of the City,’ but that morning I decided that so much was going on as term began that I told my administrative assistant to say I wouldn’t be there. She urged me to go or the students would be terribly disappointed. She was right and I went, but I later concluded she had known the game plan. Phil Givens, a member of Parliament and ex-mayor of Toronto, was the other guest. After viewing a short film, we were asked to comment. An Excalibur reporter wrote that ‘Saywell had barely started his speech before being challenged by a YSM student, and when Givens at one point tried to come to his rescue he was denounced as a liar and forced to sit down … Soon a heated discussion developed between Saywell, the YSM people and the audience. Saywell remained very cool throughout the affair, although he hedged on some of the pointed questions thrown his way. He never did finish his speech.’ In fact, I was deliberately shouted down by a few YSM students, and when Givens later attempted to answer a question, he was bombarded, as I had been, with repeated shouts of ‘That’s a lie.’ Editorially, Excalibur pronounced the teach-in a great success. Waller’s editorial, ‘It’s Not All Right, Jack,’ says it all: We agree: the York Student Movement didn’t play your game when they disrupted the teach-in. But we suppose it didn’t ever occur to you that the flaws, lies and plain bullshit that they found in your nauseous game witty ‘concerned’ speeches followed by irrelevant non-abrasive questions followed by nothing was too much. Of course not. When the people took over the floor you left. What YSM did should be noted carefully. Almost every student who was there will now be a little less apprehensive about confronting ‘leading intellectuals’ in similar situations ... Some people are upset that the YSM used the tactics they did at the Winters’ teach-in. The shouting and the guerrilla theatre were considered unnecessary. To probably misuse an analogy, before you can find out how good, or bad, an egg is to eat, you have to crack its shell. Sometimes, the shell is pretty thick and you have to hit a little harder.

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More hard hitting came in January 1970 with the anti-American, anti-capitalist movement, which, as far as I could tell, was once again confined to a small group of kindred spirits. At the same time, at Waller’s urging and with the full support of Excalibur, Paul Axelrod was elected president of the YSF. Axelrod (who later did his PhD at York and is now (2007) dean of York’s Faculty of Education) was regarded as one of the radical reform leaders. He was an Excalibur staffer, leader of the reform wing on YSF council, and member of what by early 1970 was the defunct YSM. In his election platform he demanded the end of the American invasion, course unions, equal parking rights, and the withdrawal of token students from faculty councils and committees. By 1970 he was active in classroom organization and was one of the leaders in the half-hearted attempt to practise guerrilla warfare in my classroom. In October 1969 many of the same YSM group, including Axelrod and Waller, attacked Professor Bernie Frolic, a well-known expert on modern China, in his course on Mao and revolution. Frolic had probably antagonized the YSM radicals (who did lack a sense of humour) when at the beginning of his course he set out fairly rigid set of requirements, which he signed B.M. Frolic, member of the York Professors’ Movement. The radicals soon were challenging what they believed was his overly critical treatment of Mao and the cultural revolution (although one camp follower later wrote me that Frolic had taught the course ‘in an informed and balanced way’). In the second term the critics created their own ‘counter-course’ with an off-campus adviser who professed to be a Maoist. Bob Roth, a leader of the revolt against the structure and content of the course, wrote in Excalibur (30 October 1969) that ‘we need progressive faculty if we are to have a progressive university. And to achieve this we will have to act. Unfortunately, we cannot depend on another ice age to rid us of the academic dinosaurs now roaming the campus.’ The YSM group refused to hand in any assignments in Frolic’s course and were rewarded with an F. Following meetings with some students, the Political Science Department deserted an outraged Frolic by backing down and giving them all a C. (Had the question reached the dean’s office, the results would have been much more severe.) Bernie Frolic never forgave the department for what he regarded as a spineless capitulation. The dispute did not escape the attention of the ever watchful RCMP despatched to monitor our activities on the campus. The officer reported that the students who created their own tutorial ‘have

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adopted a Maoist attitude and include such people as Paul Douglas Axelrod.’ Many years later, in view of Axelrod’s ‘Maoist’ past and student activism, Ottawa asked the Toronto detachment whether a ‘search warrant’ should be issued for him. Someone with obviously more common sense wrote in the margin of the letter ‘I do not support this.’ (Paul Axelrod showed me his RCMP files. I have been unable to persuade the Privacy Commission to release 180 pages of documents on me!) Angered by an article in Toronto Life, ‘How York Faces Love, Life and the Real World’ (October 1970), Axelrod replied with a long article in Excalibur (25 February 1971), mentioned in chapter 3, telling how it really was at York, a university that was built around myths that it diligently fed to the public. The myths were the sacrosanct college system, the collegial democracy, and the absence of student unrest. ‘How much attention has been paid by the myth makers,’ he wrote, ‘to the generally sterile, un-inspiring quality of the classroom environment, both in the lecture halls and the tutorial, where active participation by students is the exception rather than the rule.’ The opportunity to attack me was not to be missed: ‘Students last year in Nat. Sci 176, in their struggle to reform the course, must have ultimately been convinced that the charming John Saywell (the revolutionary?) who promised everything (thereby “taking the steam out of student protest”) and granted nothing was guilty of deceit and dishonesty.’ The criticism of York by the radical left was really an insistence that academic reality reflect their world view. Instead of being the compliant servant of international corporate capitalism, the university should expose its evils as the mother of social inequality, repression of minorities, economic exploitation, war, and imperialism. The university should not be hierarchical and authoritarian, with its emphasis on evaluation and competitiveness, but a partnership of equals – a classless state with its prescribed and proscribed ideologies. And, it must be admitted, if we can set aside their ideology, much of the criticism was not wide of the mark. Surveys I commissioned in 1970 and 1972 found that for most students the ‘college system’ was a myth, an architectural and planning folly; that large lecture theatres contradicted the myth of a humane education; and that courses were too often taught by faculty who could not teach (or, charitably, were too committed to research to care) and tutorials leaders (too often graduate students) who, one study reported, were labelled ‘incompetent, inaccessible, unprepared

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and uncaring.’ In a 1972 study of why students dropped out, the ‘personalities of Tutorial leaders and Professors’ ranked highest. Had the faculty been surveyed, they undoubtedly would have agreed with Axelrod that, if the level of student participation in the tutorials was any indication, they were a very bad investment of time and money. Sadly, the truth was that for a decade we – in the dean’s office at least – had been too busy chasing our enrolment tails and building the faculty and the university to devote enough attention to the qualitative side of the faculty–student equation. The results left much to be desired on both sides.

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8 Questions of Quality

Until 1970 York had been driven by the necessity of absorbing 7,000 undergraduates and finding the faculty to teach them. This necessity inevitably limited our freedom in the recruitment of students and the appointment of faculty. By 1970, however, we had more than fulfilled the mandate accepted by York in 1962. Although it was impossible to turn the clock back, it was possible to direct our energy to an examination of the quality of our students and an evaluation of the teaching and scholarly performance of the faculty. As every member of the academy knows, the study of either student or faculty performance inevitably leads to rancorous political and pedagogical confrontations. Equal access of all and equal and easy passage for all was the mantra of many inside the university; evaluation, they claimed, defeated the very purposes of a university education. No less contentious was any attempt to establish an appropriate balance of teaching and research by members of the faculty, if indeed there should be a balance. These fundamental issues have never been resolved either in the small liberal arts colleges or the modern research multiversity, and they certainly were not in the Faculty of Arts at York. To meet the 7,000 target, we had little or no freedom to set our own admission standards. In a very real sense we were a victim of numbers, and we had to take what we could get. The University of Toronto was in the same catchment area for Metropolitan Toronto students and, whatever its faults, had an excellent reputation. As always, Queen’s attracted very able students. Western was also enticing to Toronto students who wanted to get away from home and taste what was rumoured to be a hedonistic student culture combined with modest

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academic pressures. We were the new player on the block. Our academic reputation was untested, and in much of old Toronto our social respectability was questioned. Moreover, York, isolated on the northern fringe of the city, was justly described as desolate. Not until mid1973 did the Yonge subway reach York Mills, and Finch a year later – both stops still leaving students with long bus rides to reach campus. The Spadina line did not to reach Wilson until 1978, and it was not until 1996 that it was extended to Downsview. The trip to York was an heroic endeavour; thus, it was not surprising that 35 per cent of our students selected York because it was close to home. Despite all these negative factors, we did get some good students, but the student body overall was mediocre at best. Until 1971 we automatically admitted those who had grades of 60 per cent or over. When enrolments were greater than we could accommodate at the York campus, we sent them off to Glendon (which usually had a shortfall) for a year or two. On occasion, we were forced to admit some who had an average below 60 but showed signs of potential in several subjects (or had an average killed by French or math). By 1971 it was clear to those in the classroom that, with the abolition of Grade 13 exams in 1967, the quality of the entering students was deteriorating. Consequently, it had not been hard to convince the faculty that it was time to freeze enrolment. Whatever the quality of secondary school education as a preparation for university or the utility of the Grade 13 exam, they at least demanded some discipline and the capacity to memorize. The abolition of exams meant that there was no provincial external assessment of teacher competence or of student ability. In effect, each school was its own crown prosecutor and judge and largely determined its own university entrance standards. If a mark of 80 meant a scholarship and 59 a failure, many if not all schools were understandably inclined to give marks of an A or 60. (Although we attempted to find a way to determine the validity of secondary school evaluations we were not very successful.) In short, high school grades became unreliable. One provincial study indicated that first-class marks leaped from 14 per cent in 1965 to 23 per cent in 1968 and that failures had fallen from 19 to 7 per cent. By the early 1970s grade inflation had reached at least 5 per cent; this effectively meant that we were admitting students with an average of 55 or lower. At York, I commissioned a study in 1972, which revealed that the rate of increase of our entering students was 500 per cent in the 65–70

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range and between 200 and 300 per cent in the 60–65 and 70–75 ranges. The proportion of students with grades in the upper level remained fairly static, but as the report stated ‘the scarcity of these students, combined with the greater drawing power of other universities, gave York Arts a number of these students which, small to begin with, faded still further as a percentage of the total.’ In fact, from 1968 to 1972 the percentages of students with first-class marks fell from 7.5 to 4.3 per cent despite grade inflation. In 1970–71 we set out to improve the quality of our students. In September 1970 I told the senate academic policy and planning committee that, having reached our enrolment goal, we preferred to hold the firstyear intake steady, an obvious way to raise standards as long as demand kept increasing. A task force headed by Ted Olson recommended in the summer of 1971 that we hold first-year enrolment in arts to 1,900 with a provision for putative education students who would take their first year in the Faculty of Arts. The policy of restraint was approved by the department chairs in October 1971, and our brief to CUA for 1972 stated that our base would be 1,900 plus an allowance for 400 in education. In 1971 we also attempted to raise the grade average necessary for admission to arts. As I wrote in my February 1972 budget submission, ‘the Faculty of Arts Subcommittee of the Senate Committee on Admissions worked diligently and successfully towards their goal of upgrading the level of entrance. The point established was 62. The ultimate grade point of entering students would have been higher had we not been compelled by the last-minute decisions of other universities to reach into the bottom of the barrel for the last hundred-or-so students.’ The chief offender was the University of Toronto because of bungling by the central admission office and the colleges’ lust for more basic income units (see chapter 5). Nevertheless, the heavy concentration of students in the 60–63 range was cut drastically from 20 percent in 1970 to 11 per cent in 1971. We were also tougher on the readmission of York failures. Despite the slow-down in enrolment projections, we were determined to repeat the 1971 process in 1972 and persuaded the senate committee to accept a 63 per cent cut off for arts. However, as enrolments fell, with the obvious financial consequences, we were not able to withstand the pressure. As President Slater later informed the chairman of the board, in senate he had opposed the decision to raise the cut-off grade, arguing that there were many promising students in the

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60–63 range. Over our opposition, senate agreed and early admission was offered to those with averages between 60 and 63 but with good grades in at least two subjects. As the confirmation rates became known in July 1972, the senate admission committee determined that, to meet their target, faculties could – and should – admit students with averages of 58 per cent. As a result, our admission rate of those with an average below 60 rose from 3.4 per cent in 1971 to 4.1 per cent the following year, but it was still well below the 7.6 per cent when we began our exercise in 1970. Overall, our 1972 admissions profile was 4 per cent over 80 per cent and 64 per cent in the 60s. One would expect that, with grade inflation and anything like absolute achievement standards, failure rates would have increased and averages declined. The reverse happened: as the quality of the students declined their average grades improved. Between 1968 and 1971 eleven of the fourteen teaching units had a marked upward shift in the percentage of grades above C+, the level required for honours standing. The most dramatic changes occurred in the Departments of Psychology and Sociology, where the shift was 30 per cent, and no fewer than 70 per cent of students received grades above C+. In 1967 only 61 per cent of second-year students were eligible to continue in honours. In 1971 it was 70 per cent, with the range from 56 per cent in economics to 82 per cent in sociology. But as Ted Olson reported in 1972, although ‘faced with this relentless encouragement, a large number of students will nonetheless obstinately persist in identifying themselves as Ordinary [three-year degree students] in third year.’ Given our inflated grading, the difference between ordinary and honours students was too often not grades but the willingness to spend another year on campus. Even so, the numbers graduating with an honours degree were depressingly low. Grade inflation peaked in 1971, which was also the session in which take-home exams peaked. Discussions in council, senate, and a meeting with arts chairs had led to a general agreement that grading was a little too generous and that there should be greater control over take-home exams. The results were evident in the spring 1972 exams, when the percentages of grades C+ and above among third-year students dropped 6 per cent among ordinary students and 10 per cent among honours students, while the failure rate increased in first year from 4.5 to 8.1 per cent and in the upper years from 4.3 to 4.8 per cent. However, there continued to be marked differences among depart-

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ments, with psych and soc continuing to be the most lenient. As a result many students took their courses as electives to avoid work and improve their grades. Achieving uniformity in grading standards was an almost impossible task. Every debate on grading – and there were many – revealed deep and widespread differences among faculty about the nature and function of the university. On one side were those who believed – in keeping with the culture of the sixties – that it was a place for self-discovery by the student and who opposed any grading or the assumption of any authority by the faculty as destructive of true education. On the opposite side were those who saw the university as essentially an evaluative institution responsible to society (and professional and graduate schools) for the academic branding of its graduates. There was no peace among them and no end to the argument. Nevertheless, it seemed imperative that we face the incontestable fact that our standards were lower than we would like. In another section of his 1972 report, Olson made a number of suggestions for qualitative improvements: contraction of first-year admissions to 1,500 students for four years or until such time as we could increase the intake without jeopardizing quality; more rigorous grading to deliberately weed out the worst students; and the creation of a ‘real’ honours program – small, intensive, demanding – with students who ‘would be fed a richer intellectual diet and from whom we would expect a richer intellectual output.’ I circulated the entire report, including its discussion of size and growth, grade inflation and marking, and differential diets for differential students to all departments and asked the executive committee of council to establish a committee to review the report. Many lengthy and critical replies to the Olson report were soon on my desk. The sociologists found the emphasis on marks out of keeping with the idea and purpose of a modern university education. The geographers suggested radical changes in the ‘soft’ first year to allow tougher departmental courses (presumably to help weed out the weak). Professor David Bakan of psychology personally led the charge against what to him was intellectual elitism. He replied through the student newspaper with a vigorous attack on Olson’s – and, implicitly, my – ‘Social Darwinism’ which he thought we might ultimately try to apply to the faculty as well as the students. Bakan reflected the attitude of many the younger faculty in the 1960s, although he was not one of them. We had brought him as a senior professor from the University of Chicago in 1968 and regarded him as a

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great catch. Freed from the irksome restraints at an established institution, he relished his relative freedom at York. He believed that grading was inherently evil and discrimination among students an invidious form of academic Darwinism in which only the fittest would survive. Writing exams for grades forced the students to compete, whereas the proper educational experience was for ‘people to cooperate and pool their intelligence in order to solve their mutual problems.’ At first he refused to submit any grades, and when forced to provide them, he submitted all A’s. When his grades came to my desk from the council committee, I suggested that Bakan be informed that all F’s might be more appropriate. His next move was to get the psych students’ committee to move that all psych courses be marked on a pass/fail basis. The immediate question was resolved, and grades were distributed in some rough fashion, but the wide discrepancies in evaluation and the debate over its validity remained (in practice if not in theory). The debate was to be expected in a young university without firm traditions and with a faculty drawn from a wide variety of backgrounds and experiences. It might also have been a reflection of the heady freedom and permissiveness of 1960s student culture – to a large extent shared by the younger faculty in particular – where sex, drugs, and grades were free goods. For many years in the Faculty of Arts we were too absorbed in finding the ‘someones’ and recruiting key senior faculty to be much concerned about the overall quality of the faculty itself. There were some excellent faculty specially recruited at the senior ranks and discovered by diligence or luck at the junior levels. But the need to hire large numbers of faculty inevitably had its price. There were a number of disturbing facts. Many lecturers who had come with incomplete dissertations had, despite their promises, failed to complete them, while others apparently concluded that, with the dissertations complete, they could rest on their laurels. More disturbing and disappointing were those – young and old – whom we hired on the basis of their published record and the presumption of their continuing scholarship, but who apparently neither found the winters nor the intellectual climate at York conducive to research and scholarship. There were too many who arrived with tenure, a book, and two articles and who were to retire thirty years later with one book and two articles. Clearly not everyone at York believed we should attempt to be a good research institution.

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The careers of York faculty were loosely governed, at least in theory, by university’s promotion and tenure (P and T) policy. Viewed from the outside, academic tenure is a unique and absurd form of job protection. Its historical origin as protecting free speech and free inquiry has either been forgotten or was no longer seen as necessary. To many outside the ivory tower, a nine-hour (or less) teaching week, roughly twenty-six teaching weeks a year, and a three-month vacation in the summer – all guaranteed for life – was a travesty For most of us in the academy, such views were a grossly misleading, almost libellous, caricature. But for too many faculty, in fact, tenure was a travesty. Yet when a financial crisis in 1972 forced York to consider the dismissal of tenured or even probationary (tenure-track) faculty, insiders insisted that tenure was sacred and untouchable even if the university went bankrupt. Outsiders, however, including the board of governors, did not equate freedom of speech and inquiry with job protection that defied financial necessity. By the end of 1968 we had a P and T document, if not a firm policy or practice in place. Most initial appointments were probationary, not contractual, and it was assumed that, ‘all being well,’ the probationary lecturer would become a candidate for tenure. Candidacy for tenure was normally to begin with the promotion to assistant professor, which usually followed completion of the doctorate. Within three years of promotion, the assistant professor had to become a candidate for tenure, and the period of candidacy could not exceed three years – or six years after the initial appointment. The initiating unit was the department’s committee on P and T, usually composed of tenured and non-tenured members. The recommendation would go the dean, who usually discussed the cases with the chair, and then to the senate committee on promotions and tenure. The file then went to the president with recommendations that could be positive, negative, or to delay. If the decision was negative, the dean had to inform the candidate in writing that he or she could appeal to the senate committee. The president in turn – as he usually did – consulted with the dean on problematic cases (although Murray Ross in the early years had sometimes promoted those not recommended and delayed or denied promotion to those recommended but without consultation and usually for highly subjective reasons). The basic problem was the absence of firm and agreed upon criteria for promotion and tenure. A senate document in 1971 defined the criterion as ‘the total contribution the individual had made to the Univer-

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sity.’ Three criteria were listed in 1968. First was teaching, the quality of which was to be judged by colleagues in an organized and responsible way in each department. Second was ‘professional status or reputation,’ broadly defined as research and published scholarship or work commissioned by governments or private institutions. Third was committee and administrative work – known as service – within the university. The 1968 document observed that ‘excessive amounts of committee and administrative work are not in themselves sufficient criteria for tenure or promotion, but in exceptional cases the university must recognize its responsibility for the fact that the growth of a candidate’s professional reputation may have lagged because of the large demands which vital administrative work has made on his time and energy.’ None of the three criteria were explicitly given prominence, and none were easily measurable. Faculty disagreement over the relative weight of the three was as divisive as that over student evaluation. Because it was relatively easy for a ‘soft’ department to find excellent teaching and exceptional and devoted service in a candidate whose scholarship was sluggish or non-existent, P and T files were soon laden with accounts of memberships on countless committees. My firm belief was that other than in exceptional cases – and there were some – P and T should depend heavily, though not entirely, on scholarly research and publication, followed by excellence in teaching, if the latter could be measured accurately. Only in marginal cases, and where it was far beyond that expected of all members of the faculty, should service be a factor in P and T. Administrative service, I believed, should be rewarded by administrative stipends. The time to make the critical decisions about tenure, it seemed to me, was early in a professional career. In January 1971 I sent this memo to the chairs of all departments: I should like to offer a few comments about the recruiting of new staff. There is no doubt that we are running into trouble on questions of promotions, tenure, salaries, general reputation etc. as a result of the large number of lecturers who have not completed their degrees and who seem not to be making much progress towards the completion of their degrees (not to mention those who having completed their degree have apparently turned against research scholarship completely). I should like to suggest that this year – and each department and division is bound to differ on terms – that we must make clear [to new faculty] our expectation that the dissertation will be finished within a

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period of a couple of years and that proven progress towards the completion of the dissertation will be an important factor in the retention of any lecturer at the end of the first or second year. I would also like to suggest that in working out teaching loads for next year, those members of your department who have undoubted potential but who have not completed their degrees be encouraged to do so – not by reducing their loads – which, given the strain on resources is impossible – but by not making additional demands on them in the way of new courses, new preparations and so on.

The pressure seemed to work, and some were forced to leave; others did so voluntarily rather than face a tenure decision. Happily, there were many exceptions; indeed, some of York’s most distinguished scholars began as lecturers – Jack Granatstein, Peter Oliver, and Paul Lovejoy in history, for example. At any rate, the strict application of the tenure criteria proved to be impossible for both logistical – we needed teachers in the classroom – and academic reasons. By 1970 about 300 of the 800 faculty at York were tenured. Many non-tenured faculty were nearing the six-year deadline. In the senior policy committee on November 1971, President Slater asked whether the ‘six-year rule should be applied with rigour this year or whether delays without prejudice to position should be allowed as they were last year.’ According to the minutes my response was a vague ‘Yes’ ‘but not necessarily’: Dean Saywell stated he felt strongly that a tenure file must be prepared for all eligible people. Terminations, if they are to occur, must be made before November 1. Therefore, if renewal of contracts are not anticipated after tenure considerations, York must still retain people for an extra year since the deadline is past ... He pointed out terminations would not be automatic if tenure were denied. If the questions are put, then some problem areas such as ‘de facto’ tenure of persons in the University over a long period of time, instructorships, and so on, will have some precedents to rely on. Dean Gillies and Dean Crowe agreed to this viewpoint.

Most of the involuntary departures were determined at the departmental level and only rarely reached my office. In such cases I usually called in the chair to make certain that the assessment had been reasonably conducted and that it had the support of most, if not all, of the department. Seldom did I ask a department to reconsider. Most faculty

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who were denied tenure or whose contract was not renewed left quietly, one hopes because the decision had been just. One notable exception was that of Richard Pope – notable because it reached the media and was illustrative of the blending of scholarly and ideological issues in the universities of the 1960s. Pope, who was a protégé of Jack Seeley’s, had been hired as an associate professor in 1962 although he had neither a doctorate nor any evidence of scholarly work. Although he had told me that the university was an academy, and not a curriculum, we had given Pope the task of organizing and administering Social Science 1. As it turned out he could neither organize nor administer the team-taught course, and his teaching in a lecture format was a disaster. Several of his colleagues stormed into my office on more than one occasion to warn me that they would not be humiliated by having to listen to another of his lectures or participate in the course if he remained the organizer. We resolved the immediate problems of the course but not the problem of Pope until Fred Elkin, the chair of sociology, and David Hoffman, the chair of social science, recommended that his contract not be renewed. I agreed. In October 1968 Ross McLean, executive producer of The Way It Is, probably at the urging of Patrick Watson, the cohost, asked me if I would debate the state of the university with a group of university students. I agreed. I arrived at the studio for the taping late and tired, after a long lunch with some visiting Japanese professors, to find myself in the ‘bear pit’ with a studio full of obviously hostile students among whom I recognized some of the leading student radicals from the University of Toronto and York. As I remember, the discussion was reasonably predictable, and I was not gaining any converts or yielding any ground, when one student charged me with purging ‘leftists’ from York. I was stunned and outraged: ‘That’s a lie – and if you can come on this show next week with any proof I will resign as host of this show and as dean at York University.’ (It was apparently an electrifying moment that caught the attention of television reviewers when it aired on 20 October 1968 and has been replayed occasionally as a memorable moment on CBC.) The student did not appear, but Pope, who by then had left York and was on the faculty at the University of Regina, sent me the following telegram with a copy to the Toronto Star and Pro Tem: The story which the students had a grip on ... is true, even if some of the facts they brought forth may be technically incorrect. I need hardly

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remind you that my contract was not renewed and that for five years I had been a persistent and public critic of York’s structure and educational policy. Like John Seeley, I was forced to leave York, but other faculty left out of disillusionment with an administration which betrayed hopes of freedom and experimentation in education. Shame on you for a cheap trick of a rhetorical threat of resignation in order to obscure the very real basis of complaints which York students have had against a patronizing and sometimes vicious administration of which you may not have been the architect, but certainly the willing servant.

No reasons had been given for his non-renewal, Pope added, but ‘unofficially I was told that I had not published enough, that my lectures were not clear and that the University was moving in a direction in which my presence would not be relevant.’ All of which was true. The students who had pleaded with me not to accept the non-renewal recommendation had agreed that Pope was a disaster in the classroom but insisted he was a brilliant conversationalist in his office and particularly in the late-night bull sessions at his house. Pope’s telegram did not arouse the students, although Watson said it was proof enough for him of my purge of the leftists. From the beginning of my academic career I believed, naively as the world unfolded, that research and teaching were not only the essential tasks of the academic, but that the two were inseparably related: the university and its inhabitants existed both to advance and to communicate knowledge. I did not believe there had to be strict correlation between teaching and research, that good teaching had to be directly informed by on-going research. Only of my books, The Lawmakers, was the direct outcome of my teaching. But my undergraduate and graduate seminars were directly related to my research in Canadians politics, law, and federalism. The correlation between teaching and research is not always possible; young academics, in particular, often have little choice about what they teach, and even senior scholars have to pitch in and patch holes. But overall I believed that those who had chosen university life were scholarteachers. There is another form of scholarship that is not based on original research. It may be called reflective scholarship – a rethinking or a reformulation of old knowledge as a result of deep and wide reading and much of thought. This becomes a form of new knowledge that, like research-based scholarship, should be revealed in

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published form, although at its best such scholarship can take a long time to reach that point. Although I was determined to build a faculty of those who combined researcher-scholar-teacher ambitions and instincts, my idealism or illusions were quickly tempered with a strong dose of realism. I soon realized that, too often, a symbiotic connection among these elements did not exist. It became apparent over time that some faculty were not committed to either scholarship and research or to teaching and contributed little or nothing to the administration of the department or university. There were research scholars who either disliked teaching or found it, and sharing the burden of self-government, an unwelcome interference with their real work. Frequent leaves and a regular paycheque were their idea of the university. And there were those scholar-teachers whose yellowing lecture notes were taken out of the files year after year, unrevised and unrepented. Some – not enough – did it all. To establish some measure of quality control outside the usually soft departmental reviews, I wanted a number of evaluative tools. For example, I became a firm believer in post-tenure review of both teaching and research by external scholars. Sanctions could range from a warning or a pay freeze to withdrawal of tenure. The mere suggestion of such a policy was treated as a laughable non-starter or met with alarm and hostility – despite every university’s protestation that it was both socially and academically accountable. A milder proposal was to apply differential loads to faculty who only taught and others who both taught and published. I also believed that there should be full teaching credit for a variety of activities not usually or fully recognized in determining faculty loads, such as research direction, and in more generous research grants and sabbatical leaves for research scholars than the scholar-teachers. In one instance, however, I succeeded in securing differential loading to protect people we had hired as language teachers, many of whom were native speakers who had no research intentions and who would face an uncertain future if the tenure criteria were strictly applied. Not without considerable opposition from the die-hard academicians ,we did succeed in establishing a separate stream with different ranks and different criteria for job security. In addition, while I did not support a two-tiered scheme of graduate and undergraduate faculties with separate powers of appointment, teaching loads, and salary scales – to create a ‘research’ university within a broadly based university – I did believe in a higher level of

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research accomplishment for those teaching in the graduate programs. Only those with a demonstrated and continuing commitment to research should be allowed to offer research seminars and supervise dissertations. That is precisely what occurred in the better departments. ‘Research’ sabbaticals were in theory the way to encourage and reward research. At York, sabbaticals were originally a year off at 50 per cent of salary after six years on the faculty. In 1970 we successfully argued for an increase to 70 per cent. However, I never believed that sabbaticals were – or ever should have become – a right of employment. I believed that a sabbatical was a testing ground: it should be granted only when a research project was outlined and reviewed (much like an external grant) and that it should be followed by a report to show evidence of accomplishment, without which there should not be a second. However, it was not long – at York and elsewhere in Canada – before sabbaticals became an unquestioned and unaccountable right – often called ‘educational leave’ – the education too often being recharging the mind on a Spanish beach. When Albert Tucker, the Glendon principal, tried to deny sabbaticals for completion of a dissertation – a policy of his I supported –there was an immediate faculty uproar. He had to back down because there was no university policy he could rely on and certainly not a rigorous one that would not be rejected by the faculty association. As time passed, sabbaticals became an increasing charge on our budget and accounted, in part, for the necessity to hire part-time or contractual faculty. Sadly, even with a policy whereby faculty were paid at 70 per cent of salary while on sabbatical, we estimated in 1972 that only 60 per cent of those eligible took a full sabbatical leave: increasing numbers preferred to take a half-year leave at full salary. In short, sabbaticals enabled research-scholars to get more done; it allowed others simply to take time away from the classroom. Regrettably we never reached a firm university decision on the purpose or conditions of sabbatical leave. In September 1972, when the financial crisis hit and sabbaticals became an increasing expense, Dean Arthurs of Osgoode Law School warned the president’s council ‘against the political implications of denying the “right” to sabbaticals, although he agreed that legally the university could do so.’ I insisted that somehow one of the ingredients in defining the ‘right’ had to be scholarly productivity. It was evident that the faculty association would fight any limitation on the ‘right,’ although President Slater did report that the York University Faculty Association ‘has advocated a

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reporting-back exercise at the end of the leave period.’ To the best of my knowledge, such an exercise was never implemented and sabbaticals remained an unconditional right – as they still are. One way of rewarding scholarly productivity – as well as excellence in the classroom and extraordinary service – was merit pay. From the outset I successfully persuaded the board that universal increases would reward mediocrity and would prevent us from recruiting or retaining excellent faculty. Presidents Ross and Slater were sympathetic to that point of view. The faculty association was more interested in securing the maximum increase across the board, particularly after unionization in 1974. Each year I gave the department a budget for increased salaries and outlined the criteria for the distributions, while keeping some of the overall merit budget in the dean’s office. Determining merit pay was a difficult and onerous task. In every department, some thought they deserved the whole pot; none would admit to a non-meritorious performance. Difficulties usually wound up in my office, where a settlement was reached. There were departments – one in particular I remember – that were so democratic or without strong leadership that the recommendations were of equal merit raises for everyone. I replied that, since all could not be equally deserving, there would be no merit pay for anyone. If their obstinacy continued, I simply threatened to secure the CVs, interview members of the department, and make the decisions myself. My stubbornness always led to some resolution, seldom satisfactory to everyone. (Salaries are more fully discussed in chapter 11.) Although I believed that research and publication were generally essential components of an academic’s role, the relationship between publication and tenure, promotion, and income led too often to the publication of research that was not first-rate. The result was what could be – and was – described as ‘publication pollution’ Although good, mediocre, and bad scholarship was in most instances distinguishable, P and T reviewing committees found it easier and less divisive to look for quantity rather than quality. For several years Murray Ross and many of the faculty wanted to establish a York University Press. Murray undoubtedly wanted the prestige, and the faculty presumably hoped for an easier path to publication. I fought the proposal. Good manuscripts found good publishers. It seemed likely that for sometime York University Press would be a haven for second-rate material and the object of pressure by York faculty whose submissions had been rejected elsewhere.

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In emphasizing the importance of research in the life of an academic and as one of the purposes of the academy, I did not forget that for the vast bulk of the students and their parents, the state and society, the university existed for education, and the public face of education was the teaching faculty. I believed in the importance, if not the centrality, of research-scholarship, although I knew that all faculty could not or would not do basic research. But I was convinced that all academics must be committed to conscientious and dedicated, if not inspired, teaching. I agreed with A. Bartlett Giamatti, the president of Yale who, like many presidents of major American research universities, had become concerned about the negative impact of the increasingly competitive and undue concentration on research on the commitment to and the quality of teaching and of undergraduate education in general: ‘All the research we want to do, all the obligations we must carry as faculty are in some sense nurtured by and are versions of that first calling, which is to teach our students ... We want always to do more, but we can never do less.’ York and most Canadian universities did not face the same pressures: whatever their ambitious were or might be, most were not yet classed among the major research universities. Whatever should have been the case, research and publication did not significantly affect faculty teaching loads. Graduate seminars were credited but at York were usually taught by a small number of faculty. Graduate research supervision, directed by even fewer faculty (as students came to work with the known names in the field), was seldom formally credited, but was a matter of negotiation between the graduate director and undergraduate chair. Negotiations were not easy because there was no agreed credit for the supervisor or member of the supervisory committee for MA or PhD dissertations. To make negotiations more difficult, it was too often the faculty with the heaviest supervision load who were also in high demand for undergraduate teaching, for reasons that were not difficult to understand. Although faculty in most Canadian universities did not face the same institutional and professional pressures to emphasize research at the expense of the undergraduates as in the leading American research universities, in 1968 Alex Corry, the principal of Queen’s, called student dissatisfaction a ‘crisis’: To me, there is not much overstatement in saying ‘crisis’ because I believe that more students are uneasy and dissatisfied about the state of under-

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graduate teaching, particularly in the humanities and social sciences, than any other single matter. I realize fully, of course, that dissatisfied students use teaching as a whipping boy, venting on what would be seen, if analyzed, to be dissatisfaction with themselves, chagrin at finding there is no royal road to learning, discomfort at being round pegs in square holes, and so on.

While I did not regard the quality of education at York to be at a ‘crisis’ level, I was acutely aware that with the emergence of the truly public postwar university we were to be held accountable. In April 1966, for example, at a chairs meeting, I commented on ‘the appointment of the U of T presidential committee on teaching in the Faculty of Arts and Science and suggested that chairmen think now about teaching in the Faculty, lest investigation be begun by agencies other than ourselves.’ Surveys of student opinion suggested that at least some of the teaching at York was neither dedicated nor inspired: ‘very high schoolish, inhibiting thought and expression,’ said some students, also labelling some faculty ‘inaccessible and unapproachable.’ A survey of the 1972 graduates revealed that 85 per cent found the intellectual level at York ‘non-existent,’ although that opinion was probably less a judgement of the faculty than of their peers. Quantitatively, at least, such measures as the size of classes, participation of all ranks in teaching, and faculty–student ratios seem almost unreal today. The standard teaching load was nine hours a week distributed between lectures and small groups. An examination of the Faculty of Arts showed that in lectures 70 per cent of students were taught by professors (all ranks) and 30 per cent by lecturers, and in small groups 60 per cent by regular faculty and 40 per cent by instructors and teaching associates. The faculty–student ratio for majors – honours and ordinary – varied from 1:4 in philosophy to 1:14 in psychology, with most departments at about 1:10 or 1:11. Qualitatively, the students provided us with some evidence of our teaching performance in their 1972 student calendar, which they said was to help us improve the quality of our courses, suggest cancellation of others, and ‘to give credit where credit is due.’ Several hundred courses were surveyed and they and their professors rated on a 1 (excellent) to 5 (disaster) scale. Generally, the survey showed that in all fields professors had somehow convinced the students that their knowledge should be rated as either 1 or 2. I have tried to do a rough calculation of courses by department. French was probably the highest-rated but

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English, political science, and history rated about 2. In the divisions, humanities was 2.2, social science 2.5, and natural science (where there were crises or revolts) 3. But overall too many courses were rated above 3. In relation to earlier comments about research versus teaching, it is interesting that the professor with one of the highest averages in his three courses – a 1.5 – was also one of the most committed research scholars in his department and ultimately the most prolific. (When I mentioned this to him, he replied that his students in 1972 were much better than those when he retired almost thirty years later.) Nonetheless students believed that teaching was undervalued because of undue emphasis on research. In his argument for ‘parallel structures’ to enhance students’ power within the university (see chapter 7), Paul Axelrod insisted that such structures be formed in all academic areas including those charged with appointment, promotion, and the granting of tenure. Yet it was in those areas that students faced ‘very stern resistance’ from the members of the faculty who argued that ‘professional standards of scholarship’ would be jeopardized ‘if students had decision-making power pertaining to the ability of their teachers.’ Yet, for the students ‘the teaching ability of professors is a crucial factor in the quality of education that the university offers.’ Axelrod agreed that the faculty might be the best judge of the quality of research, but that students were the most competent to judge the quality of teaching: ‘Certainly students suffer or prosper most by whatever decisions are made as to whom their professors will be, and their opinions therefore deserve at least equal consideration to those of faculty. Student involvement in these matters can only enhance the standards of “professional” scholarship if the quality of teaching is at all important in the creation of such standards.’ Under the circumstances – the speed and rate of growth, the necessity to absorb 7,000 undergraduates and recruit the faculty to teach them in a high competitive sellers’ market, the birth and growth of graduate programs, and the participation of the Faculty of Arts in the creation of new faculties – we probably exercised as much quality control as was possible. We tried but could do little to improve the quality of the entering class when our budget was driven by enrolment. By 1973 we had several graduate programs of excellent quality and were attracting first-class doctoral candidates from across Canada. We had also managed to recruit and retain dozens of younger scholars of great – and ultimately fulfilled – promise.

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Looking back, I think our greatest mistake was in not making some attempt to stream students according to their motivation, application, and ability. There was considerable financial investment by the state and society and efficient use of time by our best faculty, yet many students could have reaped higher returns in their intellectual development. I did not believe in anything as inflexible as the century-old University of Toronto honours and ordinary degrees or degree programs with a rigid set of course requirements (which was abolished in 1969). But surely we could have done something better than we did for the best of our students.

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9 The Politics of the Presidency, 1969–1970

On 19 February 1969 the board of governors announced that Murray Ross was resigning, effective 30 June 1970. The news did not come as a surprise. Ross had informed Pete Scott, the board chair, of his intention in December, and it was public knowledge on campus. In fact, on 19 February the senate executive committee and the joint senate–board committee were discussing the selection procedure to be followed for his replacement. They had agreed on a search committee of three senators and three board members, one of whom would be chair. The search committee would recommend from three to five candidates, whose names would be submitted to senate for comment and then to the board for the final selection. But there were many who believed that President Ross and the board of governors had already selected his successor and that search committees and senates would be irrelevant. An intensely political, multi-dimensional battle, which was to last more than a year, was about to begin. Portents of the future conflict between senate and the board could be seen five years earlier when the board decided to revise the original act incorporating the university in 1959. The act stated that the board had the exclusive power to appoint and remove the president. When the board committee finished its revisions in 1964, it summoned the senate executive, of which I was a member, to a meeting downtown presumably to agree to the proposed revision. The meeting, as were others later, was tense. Robert Winters, the board chair, and many members of the board regarded the university as a corporation of which they were the officers and directors, with faculty seen as employees. Their proposed revisions strengthened the board, broadening its powers and

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making them more categorical. We on the senate executive were just as determined to expand and strengthen the role of the senate, which was composed of all senior faculty and a few senior administrators. Ross may have sympathized with our position, but it was evident that he was not going to challenge Winters and the board. We extracted all the concession we could and agreed to take the revised act to senate, where a carefully contrived motion directed the executive committee to return to the table and get certain sections ‘reworded with a view to reducing ambiguities and clarifying responsibilities.’ The board’s revision would have given it power to appoint the president ‘after such consultation with the senate as seems appropriate.’ The board insisted that the power remain in its hands, but we insisted that ‘as seems appropriate’ was no protection against unilateral action. After long and heated arguments, the board agreed to remove ‘as seems appropriate’ and also to give to senate the ‘power to consult with the Board and to make recommendations as to the appointment of the Chancellor and the President.’ We secured other improvements that increased the power of senate and faculty. The president retained the power to recommend appointments and terminations but was to be ‘governed by the terms of the University’s commitments and practices.’ The board retained the authority to establish faculties, schools, and institutes but only ‘with the concurrence of the Senate.’ Senate in turn was given the responsibility for ‘the academic policy of the University’ and was authorized to recommend the establishment of faculties, schools, institutes, and departments. One of the most positive results of the lengthy negotiations was the creation of a board committee for liaison with the senate. As Winters stated at the 27 March 1965 joint meeting, while ‘in the past representatives of the Board and Senate had met on an ad hoc basis to discuss matters of common interest and concern relating to the wellbeing of the University, it was considered desirable to extend the opportunity for such discussions on a continuing basis.’ Such was the situation in law and, one hoped, in practice when the search for a president began in February 1969. Soon after the joint senate–board composition of the search committee was announced, the York Student Federation (YSF) was successful in its demand for three seats; a representative of the faculty association was also added before the committee began its deliberations. The board appointed A.J. Little, a partner in Clarkson, Gordon); Bertrand

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Gerstein, of People’s Credit Jewellers; and Justice Bora Laskin, who served as chair. Senate elected Harold Schiff, dean of science; Michael Creal of arts and Atkinson; and Albert Tucker from Glendon College. The three students were YSF president Paul Koster, David Coombs from arts, and M. Woolnough of administrative studies. Wes Coons, a professor of psychology in arts, represented the faculty association. Bill Farr was secretary to the committee. As the search committee began to discuss its procedure, the board and senate executive committees met on several occasions to establish reporting and selection procedures. Although I was on senate executive, I did not attend the meetings as it had become clear that I could be a candidate for president. On 26 June the senate executive agreed to place the procedures before senate for approval. They provided that the chair of the committee and the senate members of the committee would present the short list at a closed meeting of senate. If senate wished to indicate a preference, it would be done with a secret preferential ballot the result of which would be known only to Laskin and used ‘at his discretion.’ Similarly, Laskin and the board members of the committee would present the short list to the board, and ‘any comments of the Board will be conveyed privately’ to Laskin. The search committee would then assess its short list ‘in the light of’ senate and board comments and prepare its final report, with not more than five and no fewer than three names, to the board ‘which will then commence the necessary appointment procedures.’ The senate executive had agreed to a deeply flawed procedure that depended entirely on faith in the absolute integrity and fairness of Mr Justice Laskin. But on 25 September senate was not prepared to accept the procedure as an act of faith. Easily accepted motions asserted that all members of the search committee should attend senate and board meetings; that the word ‘closed’ be replaced by ‘open’; that the phrase ‘used at the chair’s discretion’ be deleted and a new sentence added providing that the chair should present the result of the ballots to senate; and that the comments of the board were to be conveyed to the search committee. Senate had laid down a hard-line negotiating position. The board made no response at its 14 October and 18 November meetings. The debate in senate reflected the widespread feeling on campus that the board and President Ross had already made their choice. The rapid elevation of James Gillies from consultant on the establishment of a business school in 1965, to dean in 1966, and to vice-president in

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1967, as well as his close friendship and association with members of the board, whose view of the world he seemed to share, were evident to all. That suspicion dominated the deliberations of the search committee and was also the subject of much discussion on campus. The suspicion was not only enforced by circumstances over the next few months but was later confirmed by Ross in The Way Must Be Tried, his very personal account of his years at York: It was clear from the beginning, I think, that most members of the board of governors favoured Jim Gillies as my successor. His record was clear for all to see: beginning a new faculty, bringing in good quality professors, raising substantial amounts of money for research. He was a great success in his job. Besides, he had close personal contacts with a number of board members who liked and respected him. W.P. Scott, the popular and effective chairman of the board, had reached retirement age, and the unspoken assumption was that if Jim Gillies became president, George Gardiner would succeed Pete Scott as chairman of the board. There were few outside the university who doubted that Gardiner-Gillies would be a formidable team that would continue our pioneering efforts to make York the leading university in Canada.

By September 1969 the search committee had agreed on its criteria and began to pare down the long list of sixty names submitted. I was on the list. From the time Ross announced his resignation, I had been urged to be a candidate. On one occasion, with Murray Ross present, I said to Gillies that he seemed to be the president-elect, but, if he could not tell us why he would be a good president for York, I would allow my name to go forward. He did not, and I did. In the end five candidates were interviewed, one of whom later withdrew. The finalists were Michael Oliver, the vice-principal of McGill; Albert Allen, dean of arts and science at Toronto; James Gillies; and myself. On 6 November I met the committee – or rather part of it, because neither Little nor Gerstein were there. There was a palpable antagonism on the part of two students, who accused me of being an enemy of the college system, opposed to student parity in everything from departments to the board, soft on the Americanization issue, and a suspicious advocate of expanding graduate work. I think it appropriate to draw from the transcript my response to more general questions. Asked about the office of the president, I replied that the president should retain formal power to approve appointments and promotions and to determine budgets but that informal influence is a ‘far more

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effective tool than formal powers.’ Senate should have a major role in policy making, and the president should ‘ensure that the most effective relationships between Senate and the administration are developed.’ When asked to comment on the most important problems likely to face the university over the next five years, I replied that there seemed to be three major questions: will it be able to adjust to a recession in finances without reducing the quality of teaching and research; will it be able to persuade the faculty that our approach to undergraduate education must be continually rethought; and can it move from ‘semi-independent baronies’ to a system of consensus making in which ‘the analysis of true costs and priorities’ will determine informed decision making. Inevitably, I was asked whether ‘all things being equal’ someone from the inside or the outside would be the best choice. I replied that if a strong candidate from the outside shared our goals, including the emerging sense of what role the president should play, and given the reality of a potential internal disruption, an outsider might be the wiser choice. But if those goals were not shared, we should risk the internal disruptions and appoint an insider. By late November the search committee had begun the process of selection. Each member was asked to give his impressions of the candidates and rank them. Although the participants’ memories tend to be hazy, some interviews soon after the meetings provide an indication of their thinking. Oliver seemed to be the first choice of Laskin, Tucker, and two students; Allen of Schiff and one student; myself of two faculty members; Gillies of two of the board members, although one of them ultimately concluded from the discussion that he would not be an acceptable president. Almost all the second votes appear to have been for me, including that of Laskin, but not of Gerstein and Little. From the discussion, it emerged that Michael Oliver was the first choice of a majority of the committee, including Laskin. He believed that a man from a professional faculty and with a board orientation should not be president and put Gillies last, with Allen and myself a close second. Several members of the committee apparently declared that their first choice was made easier because it was clear to them that a board dominated by Pete Scott and Allan Lambert– particularly with Scott as chairman – would never appoint me as president. Initially, Bert Gerstein was alone in his support for Gillies, but was convinced by the discussion to place him behind Oliver. Little was not there for the first discussion. On 24 November the committee formally

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endorsed a report submitting three names. The names were unranked, as the secondary support for Allen and myself created a virtual threeway tie. The report stated that Gillies ‘had secondary support in the Committee but since there was not such substantial support as to warrant bracketing him with the three persons nominated by the Committee it was felt that his name should not go forward.’ Laskin took the report to Scott on 27 November and left for England a few days later. The search committee was well aware that a report that did not include Gillies as a contender was bound to lead to some form of confrontation with the board. Predictably, Scott was furious and immediately called Murray Ross to discuss the tactics they might adopt. With the report in hand, Scott called a meeting of the board and senate executive committees on 4 December 1969 to discuss the procedures that had been amended by the senate on 25 September but had not had a response from the board. Scott argued unsuccessfully that, because senate had seen fit to amend the procedures, the board could also revise the procedures and add names to the search committee’s list. The board remained adamant that the meeting of senate had to be closed for, if the senate vote were revealed, as Scott had complained to Laskin, the board’s hands would be tied. At the conclusion of the four-hour session on 4 December, the senate executive reluctantly agreed that the result of the ballot would be known only to the chair of the search committee and the board chairman, but only after Scott had urged the senate executive to accept in return ‘an affirmation of the Board’s agreement that broad support by Senate would be an essential criterion for appointment of any candidate.’ At the board meeting the next day, Alex Barron argued that the board’s right to propose additional names was implicit in the York Act, ‘but members of the board differed as to whether such names could be presented to Senate directly or through the Search Committee.’ The revised procedures passed. In a letter to members of senate on 11 December, Scott was to state categorically that he had ‘made no mention of the nature of the report to the Board,’ but it is evident that certainly Ross and perhaps other members of the board were aware of its contents. So too were others. I was in my apartment at the Benvenuto Hotel on Wednesday night, 8 December, when about 9:30 the phone rang. ‘Had I seen the Globe?’ asked Harry Crowe. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t arrive until morning.’ Well, said Harry, who just happened to be downtown, ‘the early

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edition has the names of the successful candidates for the presidency.’ The Globe had a short story on page 5 by Loren Lind, a young reporter, which gave our names with brief bios. I told Crowe at once that I certainly favoured Oliver. Crowe had already called Oliver, who was a friend of his, and reported to me that he seemed ill at ease. Crowe suggested that I call Oliver, and he gave me his number. I told Oliver that much would depend on how senate voted now that Gillies seemed to be out of contention. I said that, if there was a way to manage it without corrupting the process, I would happily support him. A special edition of Excalibur came off the press on the morning of 9 December. It had broken the story on the candidates which, according to managing editor John King (now of the Globe), had been given to Lind by a stringer. (Lind has no recollection of the events.) The paper had had the names long enough to have three of its reporters write full biographical columns on each of us. Ross Howard, now a prominent Vancouver journalist-consultant, wrote that I was opposed to students on the board, was reported to have purged the faculty of critics, was somehow involved in the Seeley affair, and was a dean who made all the financial decisions. The two others were treated more kindly. The immediate question was: who had leaked the information and why? A few days later Excalibur reported that many people claimed to have known the names for some time, Harry Crowe among them. Harold Schiff stated that he was ‘100% sure that the original leak did not come from students members,’ although they would probably be blamed. John Adams, a student stringer for the Globe, said that he had received his information from a board member, and that ‘the leak was big enough to drive truck through.’ Bob Waller, editor-in-chief of Excalibur, then claimed that there had been no leak, but that they had pieced together all the rumours that had been floating around for a week. ‘To be honest, we weren’t absolutely sure we had the correct names until we confirmed through the reactions to our extra edition from several people obviously in the know.’ Waller, now with the CBC National, told me he was willing to talk about his days at York, but not about the leak – which suggests there was one. To this day, only one person has been named as the source of the leak. According to Murray Ross in The Way Must Be Tried, Jim Cooper, publisher of the Globe and Mail, told him they had confirmation of the story. ‘“One of the members of your committee talked to us. What’s his name I can’t remember. It’s something like ... Do want me to let you know?” “No,” I said, “I can guess.”’ The name was not revealed in the

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book, but Ross told a number of people that it was Harold Schiff, who repeatedly crossed swords with him during the search procedure and, in Ross’s opinion, was the leading opponent of Gillies’s candidacy. In my opinion, Murray’s account refers to the full reporting of the second search and the fight between senate and board in the spring. I did not talk to Harold about this issue before he died. At any rate, it is clear that the names were known before senate met on 9 December to consider the executive committee’s report on procedure. Ross had asked Michael Creal and Harry Arthurs of Osgoode to present the report: ‘I assume that, as party to the agreement, we are ready to support this statement and to say so quite firmly to Senate on Tuesday.’ Arthurs and Creal faced a suspicious and troublesome senate. The mood was not improved when Ross claimed that the search committee had not reported, and Schiff bluntly replied that Laskin had presented the committee’s report to Pete Scott. The major concern of senate was to prevent the board from considering persons not on the committee’s list. The issue was squarely put by Harold Kaplan, who asked whether the clause concerning ‘broad support of the Senate’ implied that ‘the name of any candidate considered for appointment by the Board would have had to appear on the Senate ballot.’ Arthurs replied that such was the understanding of the senate executive. Kaplan then asked that senate’s understanding of the matter be recorded and conveyed to the board. The motion to approve the procedures then passed. At the meeting on 9 December senate was not informed that, early that afternoon, Oliver had withdrawn, citing ‘a complex set of reasons,’ presumably those relating to his expected candidacy for the presidency of McGill. It was clear that, because the committee could not submit a list of at least three names, the whole procedure had to be aborted. Over the holidays I too decided to withdraw and drafted a letter, which I released to Excalibur on 5 January 1970: Whatever interest I had in facing the challenge of helping to mould York’s development over the next five years from the President’s office – and helping to change the role of that office – have been more than offset by the haggle over procedure, which seems to have left suspicion and mistrust on all sides, and the flood of rumour, fabrication and slander that has circulated on the campus over the past few months. The two factors go hand in hand. The selection of the President is either open or it is not. The Senate either plays a major role in it or it does not ...

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A secret ballot without an open discussion is absurd; a secret ballot and secret results is meaningless ... and where the Senate (which it seems to me should have the preponderant voice in the election) and the Board are asked to reach a decision so important to the university on the basis of what is, at best, inadequate, if not inaccurate, information, and by means of a procedure which ensures only that the new President, whoever he may be, will take office under a cloud.

The following day I received a handwritten note from Murray: ‘Jack – I am sorry you’re out of the running but I am certain you have your own good reasons for doing so. I now hear fewer rumours than in the past but I gather there is a build-up of feeling about the Search Committee’s list – both pro and con. I hope we don’t get into the situation that Waterloo faces – they’ve been “open” but “immobilized”! In any case I leave in a few months and it’s someone else’s problem.’ My critics told Ross Munro of the Globe (21 January 1970) that I had withdrawn only after I realized that I had only a handful of supporters among the governors and that, to win the presidency, the ‘preponderant power’ of selection would have to pass to the senate, where the ‘faculty power’ approach is ‘more appreciated’. Whatever my motives, Munro concluded, my withdrawal had ‘forced York to come to terms with the province-wide trends toward downgrading boards of governors in favour of new structures which go a long way toward making universities self-governing communities of students, faculty members and administrators.’ An extremely dejected and divided search committee met on 8 January 1970. Laskin had phoned some members on his return from England to survey opinion as to whether they should continue, and he convinced some who wanted to quit, including Schiff, to at least come to the meeting. After four hours of discussion, the committee accepted Laskin’s view on condition that he spoke to, and secured the confidence of, both board and senate. On 12 January he explained to the board that the clause restricting the results of the senate ballot made the search committee’s task of assessing the short list in light of the senate’s vote impossible. Moreover, the board’s commitment to consider ‘broad support’ by senate needed definition. As a result the search committee had decided that, if it were to continue, ‘it must either receive clarification of the ambiguities in the procedures or it must receive the permission of board and senate to interpret ambigui-

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ties for itself.’ In particular, Laskin insisted that he possess the authority to give the committee whatever data ‘might be necessary for them to make an informed assessment of Senate’s preferences.’ After a lengthy discussion, and with considerable opposition from the hardliners, Scott expressed the board’s confidence in the committee and authorized it ‘to make such interpretations of the ambiguities in the procedures as it might find necessary.’ On 22 January Laskin read a lengthy prepared statement to senate. He repeated that he had an understanding from the board that the definition of ‘broad support’ be left to the search committee and that, as chair, he could take the committee ‘into his confidence by releasing to the members whatever information is necessary for the rendering of an informed assessment.’ The committee ‘construes the procedures’ as requiring the board to make its ultimate selection from the short list, presented to it, and Laskin declared unequivocally that ‘he would dissociate himself from the procedures if names were added to the list at Board level and an appointment considered of a name that had not been submitted to the Senate.’ Finally, in drawing up the short-list the committee ‘must place the greatest emphasis on the feedback from Board and Senate, but the Committee takes the position that its own judgement must be a component in the derivation of the final short list.’ When it was suggested that the release of the senate vote violated the agreed procedures, Laskin declared that neither he nor the committee ‘could undertake to implement a procedure whereby the Committee would be expected to assess the result of Senate’s vote without having a clear idea of the nature of the vote.’ Following a lengthy and sometimes tense debate, a motion by Howard Adelman of Atkinson (one of the more suspicious senators) proposing that senate offer its support and vote of confidence in the committee to proceed under the ‘interpretations of the procedures as presented by Mr. Justice Laskin’ passed with seven dissenting votes. During the debate, John Conway, who had been about to lead a protest at the omission of Gillies when Oliver withdrew, seized the occasion to denounce me for withdrawing in the way I had, declared that he had not supported my candidacy, and, for good measure, added that since I had been dean ‘not one idea has emerged from [my] office.’ (A don at Founders College, of which Conway was the master, said that later in the spring, when Gillies made the short list, there were frequent Saturday meetings at the college of Gillies, Conway, and Bob Haynes, chair of biology, where it was apparently agreed that when Gillies

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became president, Conway would be dean of arts and Haynes the vicepresident.) The committee, which began its search in earnest on 28 January, had seven meetings before it reported to senate. Both Allen and I agreed to stand again. The committee agreed, not without great difficulty, that despite reservations about Gillies his name would have to go on the list. Harry Crowe, who desperately wanted the job, constituted another difficulty. There was considerable dissatisfaction among his colleagues at Atkinson that he had not been on the original list. As soon as I had withdrawn in January, Howard Adelman advised me not to run again because I would get neither majority support in senate nor any support on the board. His purpose was to clear the way for Crowe. Within a few days, letters from Adelman and other Atkinson faculty streamed into the search committee. There was strong opposition to Crowe in the committee, which had rejected him in round one, but with the deciding vote cast by Laskin, he was put on the list. Although a heart attack on 7 February seemed to end his candidacy, Crowe persuaded his doctors to inform Laskin that he was up to the job. The committee again interviewed all candidates. When I agreed to run again, I had insisted on meeting the committee with the board members present. Neither Gerstein nor Little chose to question me, but Michael Creal asked me why I should not be president. Harold Schiff recalled my answers in a general way: Well Saywell was trying to be extremely forthright by inviting and answering questions of why he should not be President of York University. He outlined his own personal life-style which he had heard the Board’s raising questions about and elaborated on them, said he was not likely to change his life-style, that he did not propose if he were President he would spend a lot of time outside the University ... On the other hand he gave reasons why he thought he had something to contribute to the University, and also why he thought he might be interested in the job. He did not accept the statement that he didn’t want the job at all.

The hostility of Little and, less so, of Gerstein was palpable. My visit was among the last, and the committee then cut the list to eight names: in addition to myself, there were Gillies, Crowe, Allen, Ivan Feltham (law) from York, and John Crispo, an economist at Toronto; Andrew Booth, dean of engineering at Saskatchewan; and

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David Slater, dean of graduate studies at Queen’s. On 24 March, the day after the announcement of Bora Laskin’s appointment to the Supreme Court of Canada, the committee reported to senate at a closed meeting. The committee had agreed that Laskin would be the spokesperson and provide the factual information about the candidates but that he could refer questions to members of the committee who might be in a better position to answer. However, after speaking briefly about the general qualifications looked for and the criteria used, Laskin merely provided what the senate minutes described as a ‘summary vitae’ of the eight candidates. In response to questions about individual candidates, he stated that ‘he did not feel it either possible or just for the Committee to attempt to answer questions concerning the views of the various candidates.’ His refusal – and particularly his insistence that the committee had never agreed to answer substantive questions – sparked a lengthy and angry debate. Quite clearly, as some senators pointed out, his refusal contradicted his statement to senate on 22 January that the procedures required the committee to be prepared to answer questions concerning the candidates. Confronted with his 22 January statement, Laskin lamely said that ‘I didn’t think I’d gone that far’ and intimated that the minutes were wrong. He was obviously bitter and humiliated, and senate seemed prepared to support a motion releasing itself from the requirement of confidentiality until he stated that the candidates had been assured that their names would be treated with confidence. After the senate meeting, the search committee met the board. Once again Laskin presented the report. Members of the board also seemed dissatisfied with the summary CVs. But members of the search committee were more alarmed by Pete Scott’s comments that they were to be congratulated on such an impressive list. All on the list were acceptable, he said, and the board would accept it without any further evaluation by the committee. He added that the board planned to discuss the merits of the candidates with prominent people outside the university. What he neglected to say was that on 9 March he had created and chaired his own selection committee of Lambert, Gardiner, and Barron ‘to survey in depth the qualification and merits’ of the candidates on the short list. Senate and board voting was to begin after the senate had adjourned on 24 March and was to be finished by the afternoon of 26 March. The ballot was the same as that which senate had rejected in December, but

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Table 9.1 Senate and board evaluation of short-listed candidates for York presidency, 1970 Scale

Allen Booth Crispo Crowe Feltham Gillies Saywell Slater

-3

-2

-1

0

+1

+2

+3

36(3) 43(2) 50(6) 59(6) 27(1) 44(0) 32(10) 24(0)

7(1) 11(3) 18(2) 18(2) 16(2) 5(0) 8(1) 6(0)

8(0) 8(1) 12(1) 12(4) 14(4) 5(1) 4(1) 9(1)

19(7) 25(6) 28(4) 17(6) 26(5) 10(0) 10(2) 28(0)

18(6) 17(5) 9(6) 11(2) 20(6) 7(2) 16(3) 14(3)

8(1) 10(6) 5(0) 2(0) 8(1) 5(2) 16(1) 24(9)

24(1) 6(1) 5(0) 8(0) 9(0) 44(14) 44(1) 15(6)

Note: The first number is the evaluation by senators; board members’ ranking is in parentheses.

Laskin assured them that, after lengthy consultation with Professor Lanphier of the survey research centre, the committee was convinced that it was the form that would ‘best serve the purpose of establishing Senate’s preferences’ and that, while some ‘gerrymandering’ was possible any substantial abuse would be detectable. The ballot contained the following instructions: Please evaluate each candidate individually according to the adjoining scale your ballot will not be counted unless all candidates are evaluated. All positive numbers indicate acceptability of the particular candidate in varying degrees. The zero mark indicates neutrality towards a particular candidate. Negative numbers indicate varying degrees of unacceptability of a particular candidate. The rating of one candidate may be the same as or differ from the rating of another candidate.

The search committee met on the night of 26 March, when the senate and board votes were tallied by Laskin and Bill Farr, secretary to the committee. The results, shown in table 9.1, were not seen by the committee members. Instead, members were presented with the numbers under a code that did not identify the candidates. As Laskin wrote his

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report, ‘by applications of tests which took into consideration the progression of negative and positive votes, and which involved as well the comparative relation of the various figures, including the zero votes,’ the committee was unanimous that Booth, Crispo, Crowe, and Feltham did not have broad or substantial senate support. Lanphier explained his role to me many years later: The scaling system … was a way of giving an algebraic summation, but I used it for a slightly different purpose. As a matter of fact, I think I did an analysis of how many votes of each type were cast – so if a candidate had a lot of ‘0’ votes for example, that was tallied into a kind of histogram for each of the (was it three?) candidates, just as any other score ... These histograms were more important than the algebraic score, since there are numbers of ways a person could score ‘0’ – a polarized house would yield the same score as a bland candidate for example. And if I recall Bora’s handling of the data, he looked at the histograms more than the algebraic summation ... They liked the histograms as they ‘profiled’ the reaction to the various candidates. After about 1 hour or so, I was thanked and put into a taxi very late at night.

The meeting continued until the early hours of the morning and is best recounted in Laskin’s report the next day. The first sentence read ‘The Committee submits herewith the names of four persons for consideration for the Office of President’ but the report continued with two pages of explanation and analysis of procedure. Laskin revealed the names on the ballot and the committee saw a ‘preferential pattern’ in the senate and board results. The pattern in the senate was, in descending order, Slater, Saywell, Allen, and Gillies (see fig. 9.1)*. The board’s ranking was Gillies, Slater, Allen, and Saywell. In his report Laskin then continued with a summary of the committee’s deliberations: *The histograms appealed to Laskin because they revealed that, with senate opinion deeply polarized, Slater was clearly the least objectionable candidate. A number of other summations could have been used for the senate vote. For example, if zero meant zero, the results for and against would have been Slater 107 and 93, Gillies 149 and 147, and Saywell 180 and 116. Subtracting the negatives from the positives the result would have been Gillies 2, Slater 14, and Saywell 64. The same method on the board would have resulted in Gillies 48 and 1, Slater 39 and 1, and Saywell 8 and 33. With board and senate together, Slater was the preferred candidate: Slater 52, Gillies 49, and Saywell 39.

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100

Percentage

80 60 40 20 0

Figure 9.1

Senate ranking of top four candidates for York presidency, 1970

The Committee’s own ranking, set out below, was preceded by a lengthy and frank discussion which revealed great disquiet by the faculty members and by a majority of the student members (a disquiet shared to a degree by the Board members) that the Board might appoint someone agreeable only to it rather than one who, in the opinion of the faculty and student members, would be better able to provide academic leadership, imagination, and effective administration at this stage in the history of York. It seemed evident to the faculty and student members – and they were fortified in this view by the results of the Board balloting – that Dean Gillies had been pre-selected as the Board’s president-designate. Of course, it was for the Board to indicate its preference, and there was no personal animus against Dean Gillies in the Committee. But it did appear that any serious consideration of him for the Presidency, when regard is had for the criteria of the Committee, would create a grave dilemma for the University. In any event, the faculty and the majority of student members did not see him as matching any of the other three candidates in the attributes necessary for the position of President. All members of the Committee were distressed by the polarization which was reflected to a large degree in the Board’s balloting, and to a lesser but nonetheless to a pronounced degree in the Senate’s balloting. The critical issue that emerged in the course of a long evening’s debate, stretching into the next morning, was whether the Board should be left

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unaware of the depth of conviction by various members of the Committee as to the preferential choice of members individually and collectively – in other words, whether the Board should be given the names in simple alphabetical order – or whether there was a duty on the Committee to make manifest the need, as the majority of the Committee members interpreted it, to assure the academic community that the incoming President had substantial faculty and student support, as would be indicated by the votes of the Committee members. As already noted, the Committee decided that it must pass its own judgement in the scale, and in the result the following ranking emerged from a coalescence of the individual preferences: 1. Saywell 2. Allen 3. Slater 4. Gillies This ranking is that of the Committee alone and does not take into account the vote of the Senate or the vote of the Board. Saywell had the largest number of first choice votes, ranking considerably ahead of all other candidates. Allen’s strength lay in a large number of second choice votes (he was almost the unanimous second choice), although there was a barely perceptible difference between Allen and Slater on an over all assessment because of the first choice votes for Slater. Gillies ranked far below the other three candidates in the Committee’s overall assessment.

(Although this information was not included in Laskin’s report, Slater was the first choice of one student and the three members of the board and I was first choice of two students and all the faculty.) Harold Schiff had been determined to make the committee’s position clear and was supported by Michael Creal and Wes Coons and several of the student senators, less vocally so by Al Tucker. After a long and heated debate, the motion to rank was adopted 7 to 3. Little had been present when the decision to rank had been reached but left soon afterwards and later insisted he had not been present when the committee determined that their negative feelings about Gillies should be included in the report. With acute foresight, when the committee adjourned permanently, David Coombs concluded that ‘It looks like Slater will be President.’ Laskin wrote the report, apparently showed it to Schiff, and took it to Scott on 27 March. Murray Ross later wrote that when Pete Scott received the report he was ‘upset’ and felt that the comments about Gillies ‘were unjust, even libellous.’ He called Ross and they went to see Laskin, who, according to Murray, ‘agreed the report was bad and did a disservice to Gillies but it was the only way he could get Gillies name included on the rec-

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ommended list,’ a comment not borne out by the report itself or the recollections of others. ‘There are only two copies of this report,’ he said to Scott. ‘Let’s agree that no one else will see either.’ It was agreed, Ross wrote, that the report would be kept confidential. Having received no response from the board after Laskin’s report, the senate executive informed the board on 15 April that it was concerned by the delay and reminded it that ‘the selection procedures being followed by the Board at this stage were not indicated to Senate at any time during the lengthy discussion of procedures and are viewed with misgivings by some members of the Senate.’ Finally, the executive committee reminded the board that senate’s vote of confidence in the search committee had been ‘based upon an implicit, if not explicit, understanding that the views of the Search Committee would weigh heavily with the Board in its decision.’ There was to be a meeting of the board and senate executive committees on 23 April, which was to be followed by a meeting of the senate. That morning the Globe and Mail published a major but uncredited story under the headline ‘York Governors’ Preference for President Could Lead to Crisis at University.’ The account, which seemed (and still seems) to be based on remarkably accurate information about the report of the search committee and the intentions of the board, stated that the special committee of the board would recommend the appointment of Gillies on 1 May. Ross apparently stated that, although the board may have ‘made up its mind,’ members had not had ‘their final meeting to make their recommendation.’ The belief that the board had its own agenda was confirmed when Scott opened the meeting of the senate and board executive committees on 23 April by commending the search committee on such an impressive list. The board found all four names acceptable and would discuss the merits of the candidates with people inside and outside the university, including the minister of university affairs and presidents of other universities, before making its decision. Bora Laskin was in Ottawa when the two executive committees met, but Creal and Schiff were on the senate executive committee. Creal suspected and Schiff knew, because Laskin had confidentially shown him a copy of the report, that Scott had not reported honestly to the board that Laskin’s report had included a negative assessment of Gillies. They challenged Scott but, as Creal recalled, he would not ‘budge.’ Harry Arthurs of Osgoode is reported to have said that, because Scott had the report in hand, he was prepared to accept his word that four names had been

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put forward – which was not the point at issue. In his memoirs Murray Ross wrote that ‘two faculty members insisted that only three names had been recommended; Little and Scott that four names were recommended.’ When they challenged Scott to read the report, he said he could not read it but would paraphrase it and read the opening sentence ‘We hereby submit four names for your consideration.’ When asked, Scott said he read it directly. ‘There’s no need to read further,’ the senator said, ‘I move we adjourn.’ The meeting was adjourned. The senate met soon afterwards. Reporting for the executive committee, Arthurs declared ‘that one candidate was the subject of negative comments in the Report of the Search Committee, and that if the Board ignores these comments it would be demonstrating bad judgement, but not bad faith, and would be exercising its legal power to appoint within the limits of the Board/Senate agreement.’ According to the senate minutes, a ‘prolonged debate then ensued concerning the nature of the Search Committee’s Report, what should be the weight given to its recommendations, [and] its authority in introducing its own judgement as a component in its Report.’ The minutes fail to capture the intensity of the debate. At one point as the debate dragged on, Michael Creal, as vice-chair of senate, said that if senators had any further questions to raise about the report of the search committee, now was the time to do it. David Hoffman took the cue, asking if the members of the committee were satisfied with what had been reported. Harold Schiff indicated that he had some fundamental concerns. He described the discussion in the last meeting of the search committee and indicated that members had expressed serious reservations about one of the candidates. He also suggested that the board’s selection committee and the criteria it had established, largely external factors such as relations with government and the business community, undermined the committee’s largely internal criteria and its final recommendation. Ross was visibly angry and asked Schiff for evidence. ‘He was not very convincing in his replies,’ Ross wrote in his memoirs, ‘but the damage was already done.’ Indeed, Ross could do nothing to prevent Hoffman’s motion, seconded by Harold Kaplan, ‘that the Senate asserts that the Board of Governors would display bad judgement unless it appoints a candidate from among those receiving unqualified support by the Search Committee.’ The debate on the motion continued for almost an hour. Creal, Coons, and Tucker spoke to the motion, and David Coombs, a student representative on the search

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committee, was given permission to speak. Finally, the motion passed 72 to 22. I was in my office when senate adjourned at 7.00 pm. A few dozen senators came up to the office and attacked my bar with a vengeance. There appeared to be a widespread assumption that the vote had dealt a fatal blow to the board’s determination to appoint Gillies and would make it difficult for them not to follow the recommendation of the committee, which, most assumed, was to appoint me. At the same time, there was a reception for the president in the faculty lounge, as this would be his last senate meeting. During the reception Murray confronted Schiff, angrily informing him that the board was going to appoint Gillies. For good measure, Ross told Schiff that he was a failure as dean of science and suggested he look for another job. To lend strength to the senate motion, thirty-six members of the faculty of science wrote to the board to correct a ‘misunderstanding,’ left by several senior members in science who supported Gillies, that they were not firmly behind the senate motion. David Coombs wrote to assure the board that the committee was serious in its negative comments. ‘The fourth candidate is known as the Board’s man,’ Coombs wrote, ‘and nothing, not even a statement from him [Gillies] to the contrary, will change that.’ John Adams, a student senator, wrote Scott that ‘actions of the Board’s special selection committee before and of the President after the senate meeting have polarized the university community, with the board now standing virtually alone in my opinion. I trust that you will act to end the further misunderstanding of the board’s authority and legitimacy, resulting from the actions of a few board members.’ And John Bosley, a senator and head of the Graduate Students Association, warned Scott that the action apparently contemplated would inevitably lead to demands to abolish the board. On Monday 27 April, Ross began to meet privately with members of senate. His object, as he put it, was to ‘alleviate the tension’ on the campus, but others saw it as an attempt to soften the opposition to Gillies. One such meeting, on 28 April, was with Sydney Eisen, David Hoffman, and Harold Kaplan, all supporters of mine. ‘Within minutes after we met I knew discussion was useless,’ Ross recalled. On the following day these individuals sent a long letter to Ross and members of the board providing the substance of their discussion with the president: At our meeting, we emphasized our conviction that very serious consequences for the York community would flow from the attempt by the

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Board to bypass the three candidates with unqualified Committee support in order to appoint a fourth candidate about whom the Committee had very serious reservations. This was the clear message of Senate’s vote on Thursday. We stressed that we found it very difficult to imagine how any individual could successfully serve as President at York having been appointed under such circumstances. Furthermore, such an action would not only inflict permanent damage on Board–Senate relations at this University but would also create deep and lasting divisions within the York community.

Ross admits that after the meeting he had serious doubts about whether Gillies could be appointed. Bora Laskin had reached the same conclusion. During the last meeting of the search committee, he, Gerstein, and Little had ranked Slater first. At some point Bora, then in Ottawa, phoned Al Tucker to discuss his conclusion that it would be a mistake to appoint Gillies and, as the board would not appoint me, the choice would have to be from outside the university. Tucker agreed and also met with the board’s selection committee in Allen Lambert’s office at the TD Centre. Wes Coons may have been there, he recalled, but Schiff and Creal were not. The purpose of the brief meeting was to determine whether the faculty objections and preferences ‘went beyond the strongly articulated positions of Harold and to some degree Michael. They were troubled by the question why, if it came to be demonstrated that Gillies did have Senate support, then what were the objections of Faculty and how far did these objections extend. My argument was that, whatever support Gillies could demonstrate, he would still be seen from the outset as the choice of the Board and his appointment would have divisive consequences for many, perhaps a majority of the Faculty. Sitting on Senate as President, he would be seen by many of its members as the voice of the Board.’ It was clear that Scott and his selection committee had determined that Gillies was to be the next president. Scott reported to the board that they had, individually or as a committee, interviewed the four candidates. I do not recall having been interviewed by the committee or any member of it, although Ross writes in his memoirs that in the interviews ‘Saywell impressed them,’ but they found Gillies ‘head and shoulders above any of the other three.’ The committee also met senior members of the university, the faculty members on the search committee, the presidents of Toronto, Queen’s, Western, and York, the chairman of the University Affairs Committee, and a cross-section of senior

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academics at Toronto, Queen’s, and York. The committee’s conclusions were as follows: The Selection Committee found within the University, only excepting the faculty and student members of the Search Committee, a high regard for the qualifications of both internal candidates. At the same time, the majority of those interviewed felt that, taking into consideration the external as well as the internal requirements of the University, Dr. Gillies would be the better choice of the two York candidates. The opinion of those interviewed outside the University unanimously supported this view. The interviews with faculty members of the Search Committee produced quite a different view. Their view was that Dr. Saywell was the best qualified to meet the internal needs of the University respecting both faculty and students. They also held strong views against appointing any one who, in their view, was and would be regarded as a pre-selected candidate of the Board. It was suggested that if the Board acted against their views in respect to this one candidate there would be seriously problems on campus. Your Selection Committee did not agree with these views.

Although the board could not have been unanimous if polled, Peter Scott was determined to appoint Gillies. The two men had even discussed the terms of the appointment. Surprisingly, then, on 30 April Gillies informed Scott that he had decided to withdraw. Scott called a special board meeting for 1 May at which Gillies stated that ‘in view of the controversy generated within the University by persons opposed to his candidacy he had chosen to withdraw his name from consideration.’ Gillies said that ‘harm had been done to his reputation as a scholar and administrator by unsubstantiated rumours propounded by those opposed to his candidacy and asked that the record be set straight.’ Scott already had a press release written in which the board admitted that until his withdrawal he had been ‘very much in the Board’s mind as a candidate for appointment to the presidency.’ The board praised his abilities and regretted that his ‘position has been the subject of controversy, confusion and misunderstanding prompted by misleading reports and interpretations of the Search Committee’s role and responsibilities. The Board believes that Dr. Gillies, whose integrity and ability are without question, has been done a disservice and the University community owes him an apology.’ Scott then reported that, on behalf of the selection committee, he had

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offered the presidency of York to David Slater, who had accepted. The board apparently ‘endorsed unanimously’ the offer to Slater, although recollections of some board members and the minutes are somewhat different. Murray Ross’s conclusion was that with Gilles out and ‘with Saywell’s reputation somewhat damaged in the eyes of board members, some of whom suspected he was aware of the strategy of faculty members on the search committee, there were two possible candidates.’ There was a reluctance to take a Toronto man, and that left Slater. The executive committee of senate had prepared its own long statement for a report to senate the same day. After congratulating Slater, the committee stated that it had ‘a further obligation to discharge.’ The search had been a troubled time for the university, and we fear that the reputation of a good university and of good men may have been harmed. In particular, two leading candidates – both respected academics and colleagues at York – have been the target of much adverse comment. Deans Gillies and Saywell are both men about whom strong opinions, both pro and con, have been voiced. It is a mark of their professional commitment to the University that they should have agreed to stand as candidates. It is a mark of their vigorous personalities that their candidacies should have engendered such discussion. We hope that it will be a mark of their fine human qualities that they will accept the assurances of those who opposed them, as well as of their supporters, that they are needed to build this great University which they have already served so well. What was said in the heat of the moment, orally and in reports and representations, directly or by innuendo, in actuality or in rumours, has been hurtful and often exaggerated. We deeply regret any harm that these past months have been done to either man; they deserved better of York. We particularly regret the public controversy that has developed over the candidacy of Dr. Gillies in the past two weeks and the hurt that must have been caused him by that controversy.

The end of this story was a handwritten comment, probably by Bill Farr, ‘Let there be peace in the valley.’ May 1/70.

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10 You Win Some, You Lose Some: Creating the Faculty of Education

One of the attractions of York was the opportunity to establish a unique and high-quality program in teacher education. By the 1960s an increasing number of teachers, educators, parents, and members of school boards were criticizing the quality of existing teachertraining programs in Ontario and across Canada. They complained about inadequate and uninspired courses, instructors, and students. Whether delivered in a consecutive one-year program after graduating from university (largely for secondary school teachers) or a consecutive one-year program in a teachers’ college after high school graduation (for elementary teachers), such training inspired similar derogatory comments. The consecutive programs were too short and dominated by ‘Mickey Mouse’ content and pedagogy. Practice teaching was somewhat useful but was artificial, too limited in duration, and often inadequately supervised. Yet, concurrent programs, common in other Canadian provinces and in the United States, placed undue emphasis on education courses, with consequent dilution of the academic component and overall quality of a university experience. While each model of teacher education had its proponents and detractors, there was widespread agreement that the quality of students, courses, and instruction could be much improved. In Ontario, for example, prospective elementary teachers did not require a university degree; they could enroll in a teachers’ college after Grade 13 graduation and receive certification following a one-year program. A study in 1966 revealed that had there been an admission requirement of a 60 per cent average, 42 per cent of those enrolled would not have been admitted!

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An ‘acceptable’ three- or four-year university degree was required for admission to the Ontario College of Education (OCE), which had a monopoly on the training of secondary school teachers until near the end of the 1960s, but the quality of the degree varied greatly across the province and the country. It was and remains difficult to assess accurately what constitutes an ‘acceptable’ degree. Certainly there was a widespread, if unfair, impression that the best university graduates did not ‘go into teaching.’ Most of the faculty of the OCE were former secondary teachers of ‘repute’ and, while many had master’s degrees, few had doctorates. Of those few, most were in the ‘foundations’ area: the psychology, sociology, history, or philosophy of education. It is probably correct to say that almost no member of a teacher-training institution, regardless of discipline or subject, would have received an academic appointment in any other division of a university in 1960. And while good and even excellent teachers did emerge from teachertraining institutions, it is probably not unfair to give most credit to an individual’s academic and professional competence and commitment rather than to a program of teacher training. It seemed to me that York had a unique opportunity to address some of the weaknesses in existing programs by creating an entirely new model that would integrate the academic, the professional, and the classroom experience in a concurrent degree program that would require the active and cooperative participation of the best talents within the entire university and schools systems. Soon after arriving in Toronto I had become involved in the public educational system through speaking at teachers’ conferences and professional-development workshops. In 1957 I was invited by the publisher Clarke Irwin to assist in the preparation of a text for the new Grade 9 curriculum in British history. This led to an arrangement where I became editor – and sometimes co-author – of a series of books for Grades 7 through 13. Thus began a long professional and personal association with John Ricker, then head of history at Riverdale Collegiate and later professor and dean of the Faculty of Education in the University of Toronto. Like other young and progressive teachers, Ricker was only too well aware of the inadequacies of the profession. In the spring of 1961 the Toronto association of history heads, under his chairmanship decided that ‘a practical down-to-earth method of professional development

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could best be realized by a small discussion seminar combining content and methodology.’ The Toronto Board of Education financed the experiment, and I was asked to conduct the seminars. By all accounts it was a success. What it demonstrated to all of us was that the rigid separation of content and methodology in the overall preparation of teachers was a barrier to effective teaching. In 1960 the Toronto Board of Education and the University of Toronto created a joint committee to examine the effectiveness of the curriculum and of teaching in the Toronto system. I was asked to sit on the social science subcommittee under the chairmanship of C.B. ‘Brough’ Macpherson, a brilliant Toronto political scientist. We visited classrooms, interviewed teachers, and read examination papers for every grade in the Toronto secondary schools. Our report, much like that of a parallel committee for English, was highly critical not only of the curricular content but of the way in which the content was handled – both because of the provincial Ministry of Education’s demands for ‘coverage’ and the ability of classroom teachers. The results of a Grade 13 history exam that I had set and marked bore out my experience. As we wrote, ‘The evidence that the whole secondary school curriculum for history suffers from too much fact and not enough thought seems to be decisive ... The main approximate source of the defects is the examination pattern. We think, however, that the examination pattern is more a symptom than a cause: it reflects, while reinforcing, the prevailing outlook and practice of teachers.’ While much of the blame could be placed at the door of the department as curriculum maker and textbook authorizer, we also concluded that ‘the average, or the marginal, person who teaches history in the Ontario secondary schools is incapable of the imaginative and serious historical teaching which is wanted.’ Yet those teachers, in the secondary schools at least, were graduates – usually honours graduates – of our universities. Soon after I arrived at York, Ken Preuter, superintendent of education for North York, asked me to assist in developing a course to help teachers ‘interpret their programme of studies; to identify concepts which are important and to specify and understand the significant content outlined in the course for the appropriate grade levels.’ He was eager to move into more formal teacher development in an academic setting, but I suggested to him that such a move was premature for York.

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However, in September 1964 he raised the question with Murray Ross, to whom I sent the following memo: I have every sympathy for the problems faced by Dr. Preuter and hope that York may be able to do something in the way of offering degree programmes for teachers which will, without lowering our standards, better suit their needs than the traditional general and honours programmes. Indeed, our category of General Honours might provide the proper package. My own view, however, is that we should wait until the transition [to the York campus] is well underway before embarking on any new programmes within the faculty. This is not to suggest, however, that we should not have a meeting with Dr. Preuter and should not be thinking about a programme design when the time comes.

When we met Preuter in November, it was evident that North York was interested in innovative teacher education projects or programs. Despite my desire to proceed slowly until the transition to York was complete, external circumstances dictated a less leisurely approach. In September 1964 William Davis, the minister of education, announced the formation of the McLeod Committee to examine the training of elementary school teachers. It was evident even before the committee began its work that the province was determined to get out of teacher education – by turning the teachers’ colleges over to the universities. Although York had to move quickly to address this opportunity, there was a danger of moving too quickly. That danger was immediately apparent when Murray Ross reported to the board on 11 January 1965 that he had been informed by J.R. ‘Jack’ McCarthy, the powerful deputy minister of education, that the government ‘was anxious to upgrade teacher education and recognized that the integration with a university community was one of the most important means of achieving that objective. It was suggested that if the University would be willing to assist by developing a Faculty of Education within its programme, additional land would be made available.’ McCarthy had also suggested that a community college might be located close to the university, for which land would have to be secured. I warned Murray to be cautious because the last thing we wanted was a teacher’s college. The promise of money and land was difficult to resist. Ross and the board agreed that a college of education – although that term was not defined – and an adjacent community college were ‘fully compatible

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institutions’ and informed McCarthy that York would be willing to assist the province in achieving its objectives, provided that money and land would be available, and ‘that appropriate academic arrangements could be worked out to permit a Faculty of Education to be developed as an integral part of the University’s program.’ Shortly afterwards the McLeod Committee asked the province’s universities whether they would have the necessary facilities if the ministry made one to three years of liberal arts a requirement for elementary school teachers. I suggested that Murray give a positive but qualified response. I described my version of an ideal concurrent and integrated program and said that I intended to establish a committee on teacher education. He replied, ‘I hope your committee will work on this problem soon – but that the program developed will not be too rigid – i.e. that there will be room for negotiating with school officials.’ Ross replied to McCarthy that ‘Our Board of Governors has discussed your letter of January 29 and I am pleased to tell you that we would be happy to cooperate in providing at York a liberal arts program which, with adaptation, could be used as a training program for the preparation of elementary school teachers.’ If we wanted an innovative program of teacher education at York we had to do more than merely respond positively to McCarthy. On 18 February 1965 we established a subcommittee on teacher education within the senate committee on academic policy and planning. As chair of the committee, I explained the objective to Michael Millgate, chair of English, and asked him to join the committee. ‘We did this to anticipate likely moves on the part of the Province, about which I can inform you, and to see whether we might not provide a much needed public service by more adequately preparing prospective teachers.’ On 4 March I wrote to the superintendents of the four boards of education in Metro Toronto: The Academic Policy and Planning Committee, established by the Senate of York University, is now considering ways and means in which the Faculty of Arts and Science at York might assist in the preparation of Elementary School teachers, either within our present curriculum which is far more flexible than most, or in the establishment of different programmes leading to the B.A. Degree. We are concerned not only with the preparation in a discipline, that is with the substantive matter to be taught, but also whether training in method and practice teaching can be carried on within the university framework.

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Our committee met with boards throughout the spring and found them receptive to our developing proposals, yet somewhat sceptical of the feasibility of their implementation within the existing educational system. Meanwhile, the McLeod Committee had detailed the weaknesses in the training provided by the teachers’ colleges. By February 1965 it had concluded that the ideal program would have to be provided within a university, although the committee did not describe that program. The committee invited briefs from interested parties and institutions. Among the universities, only York presented a brief but one that did not go to senate until October 1965. The brief outlined the principles of the concurrent integrated model we continued to favour – in the face of ministerial objections. Because many of the essentials survived in the faculty we established, it is worth quoting extensively. We suggested that the nature of the York curriculum, with its general education requirements and the gradual entry into disciplinary concentration, was ideally suited for prospective teachers, for it would encourage them to enter teaching as a positive choice at the time when they were deliberating career decisions early in their university years. A ten-page brief provided a rationale for teacher education in a faculty of arts and science rather than in a separate faculty of education: The natural progression from our programme of general education into work in specialty areas could readily accommodate an additional minor concentration in education. Indeed, the three-way combination [academic-professional-classroom] strikes us an ideal pattern for the education of teaching personnel Further, the intermixing of students headed for teaching careers with those who are seeking other goals would seem distinctly preferable to the isolation of student teachers in a separate Faculty of Education. Without denigrating the excellent exceptions, it is certainly a widely held belief that students entering Faculties of Education are generally of poorer quality than those in Arts faculties. This impression, even if erroneous, has certainly worked to discourage many from entering teacher training. Likewise, the isolation of faculty members into a separate group has worked to detach teacher preparation from the mainstream of university affairs, a situation to be remedied, if at all possible. An argument in favour of a separate Faculty of Education has been that teacher preparation, if submerged in an Arts faculty, would not be given

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the careful attention it deserves, and that much of what goes on in an Education Faculty would not be given academic credit towards an Arts or Science degree. We respectfully submit that this may be the case where Faculties of Education have existed and fallen into disrepute in their own institutions, but that a deliberately designed programme of teacher preparation developed by an Arts and Science faculty in consultation with experienced classroom teachers and administrators would have an excellent chance of acceptance and success.

We then outlined our proposal for an integrated concurrent program leading to an academic degree and certification or a professional degree. Students would take a common first year and begin their specialization in the second. Requirements for the Type B certificate would take four years and a Type A five. Given the nature of the curriculum, students could switch out of education and into other programs as late as the third year. Central to the proposal was a form of integration with the schools, where excellent teachers, or master teachers, would be seconded from schools and become adjunct faculty to work with the academic faculty and the students on a continuing basis in the university and in the schools. We argued that early exposure to the school situation was much preferable to episodic ‘practice teaching’ in a postgraduate year and that the benefit to the prospective teachers of being able to bring their school experience back into the university classrooms was too self-evident to need elaboration. We envisaged appointing specialists from the academic departments in the faculty to education in key areas such as educational psychology, cognitive development, and the history and philosophy of education. Moreover, we envisaged the closest involvement of our subject departments, with certain members either cross-appointed or seconded to the program in education. A program director for education would be appointed in the dean’s office, and specialists in elementary and secondary education and in educational research would hold appointments in this directorate. I was aware that the proposal would antagonize many, particularly Jack McCarthy. The Minister’s Committee on the Training of Secondary School Teachers had opposed the concurrent model in its 1962 report: ‘It is the committee’s opinion that the practice of training teachers in any type of combined course in which academic and professional studies are carried on concurrently is absolutely wrong in

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theory and should not be permitted to establish itself in the Ontario school system … The main argument in favour of this plan is stated to be the economy of time arising from the elimination of the post-graduate training year. It must be apparent that what is eliminated is a large proportion of the academic content to provide time for the professional courses.’ Yet York’s proposed program was designed to protect against the academic being subordinated to the methodological or professional, as we believed would inevitably occur in a concurrent program governed by a ‘faculty’ of education. We were, however, aware that elementary teachers were apprehensive about the disappearance of ‘how to’ at the hands of academics who were more concerned about the content than the child. My small committee was invited to appear before the McLeod Committee on 5 May 1965. As in our discussions with the boards of education, we did not wish to appear arrogant in our criticism of the existing preparation of both elementary and secondary school teachers in either colleges or faculties of education. As chair of the team, I attempted to emphasize the integrated nature of the academic, the professional specialist, and the applied in the York model. The three components would work closely together, administratively and substantively. Master teachers would not only supervise the practicum; many would eventually be released by their boards and be appointed as adjunct professors to work either part-time or full-time on campus with academics, some of whom would be committed to working in the education program. Although we knew it was a touchy subject, we also suggested that the appointment of professors in the history and philosophy of education and in various subfields within psychology and sociology might most appropriately come from within academic departments. Members of the committee were concerned primarily about details: the curriculum for elementary teachers, the scheduling of classes to allow time for the practicum, the balance between academic and professional training, the absence of a separate faculty and separate building; and the status and qualifications of the ‘professional’ appointees. But, in principle at least, it did not seem that they were adamantly opposed to our model. Nothing was heard from the Ministry of Education until 14 January 1966, when, obviously after a meeting with McCarthy, his senior assistants, Duffin and Blanchard, came to York to play hardball. The ministry was not prepared to finance our proposed four-year program for

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elementary teachers. They asked us to consider ‘at no cost to this Department’ a suitable BA degree for prospective teachers and provided a list of the obligatory and optional courses. The rest of the meeting is best revealed in a memorandum sent on 14 January 1966 for the information of McCarthy by the director of the teacher education branch. ... 2. The urgent need for additional teacher-training facilities in the Metropolitan Toronto area were outlined and Dean Saywell was asked if York University would consider renting space to the Department for the establishment of a Teachers’ College as is now being done at Brock and Laurentian Universities. He stated that there was no accommodation available on the campus at present and indicated that he was not in favour of the proposal. When asked about the possibility of the Department obtaining a site on York campus and building a Teachers’ College as at Brock and Laurentian, Dean Saywell indicated that he was not in favour of building a teacher-training institution that would probably disappear in a few years if the universities accepted responsibility for the training of teachers. He and his colleagues feel the teachers should be trained in the Faculty of Arts and Science as indicated in his proposed plan. 3. Dean Saywell and his colleagues made two proposals for consideration by the Department: (a) that the Department of Continuing Studies of York University offer a one year course for the preparation of elementary school teachers, commencing in September 1967, and that this become a two-year course just as soon as the supply of teachers permits; (b) that York University offer its proposed four-year course to run concurrently with the courses mentioned in (a).

In either case I made it clear that we would appoint our own staff, with the approval of the minister, and carry out the programs in cooperation with local boards, with the ministry covering the appropriate costs. Duffin and Blanchard informed McCarthy that if education students from the northern edges of Metropolitan Toronto, about 500 in number, were required to attend York, ‘it would relieve the present crowded conditions at Toronto Teachers’ College and would postpone or obviate the necessity of building a third Teachers’ College in Metropolitan Toronto. Therefore they recommended “(a) that the two pro-

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posals made by Dean Saywell be approved, in principle only, and (b) that [they] be permitted to enter into further discussions with officials of York University with a view to offering the proposed courses in September 1967.”’ In March 1966 the McLeod Committee recommended almost everything that we could have asked for: that all teacher education be transferred to the universities and that elementary and secondary school education be offered in the same institution; that arts professors and professors of education cooperate closely; and that the four-year program be divided into 75 per cent academic and 25 per cent professional preparation. It proposed a diversity of programs: a one-year consecutive program after a degree; a concurrent plan ‘whereby academic and professional education would be closely linked’; and an internship program for mature adults. They recommended that the ‘College of Education’ be administered as an integral part of the university, and, although they did not make that a specific recommendation, they foresaw a college and dean of that college. Recognizing that many colleagues lacked the qualifications for a university appointment, the report recommended that the Ministry of Education should ensure that members of the staff of the teachers’ college be placed on the university faculty or be assured of another position with the ministry that paid a comparable salary. Tabling the report in the Ontario Legislature on 29 March 1966, the minister of education, William Davis, said that the ministry agreed that all teachers should have a university degree and that the government approved of, and would implement as quickly as possible, the three plans – the consecutive program, with one year of professional training after a three-year arts course; the concurrent program, where the professional and academic studies would be integrated during a four-year period; and the internship. Although York heard nothing directly from the ministry, government officials were visiting most other universities in the province to discuss elementary school preparation and, with some, the integration of a teachers’ college. Knowing what the ministry intended, we had the faculty council unanimously pass the following motion on 10 November 1966: That the Council of the Faculty of Arts and Science, having unanimously approved an imaginative proposal for Teacher Education, and that

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motion having been subsequently endorsed by Senate, regrets that the implementation of the program has been delayed, and urges the President and the Chairman of the Board of Governors to pursue discussions with the Minister of Education, and officials of the Department of Education, with a view to securing acceptance of the program and its immediate implementation.

Without visiting York, the director of teacher education issued a memorandum on 30 November 1966 stating that ‘it seems that, in general, the universities are reluctant to initiate a concurrent program leading to a degree and certification which would require an early commitment on the part of university freshmen or even sophomores.’ We did not share in this reluctance, and in April 1967 the North York board met McCarthy with the proposal that York and the board cooperate on a scheme very similar to the model we proposed. We had one ally. By 1967 an impending teacher shortage was apparent. It was estimated that in 1970 there would be 10,800 students graduating in arts and science in Ontario’s universities. The school system was would need an additional 3,570 secondary school teachers and 5,880 elementary teachers. In other words, 9,450 teachers or 90 per cent of that year’s graduates of Ontario universities would be needed to teach in the schools. Early in February 1967, to stimulate some ministerial response, I asked Murray Ross to write McCarthy to ask when we could meet. After much delay we met with McCarthy and his senior assistants on 4 May. Among many issues discussed was the ministry’s desire to see a program in special education because a lack of facilities in Ontario made it necessary to send students to the United States for training in this area. We argued that York’s excellence in psychology made it an obvious choice to offer such a program. On 24 August McCarthy informed the Committee on University Affairs ‘that officials of his Department had given careful consideration to all the factors involved and had come to the conclusion that York University was the most logical choice to undertake such a responsibility’ and asked permission to approach York to develop a special education program. We had another ally. A year earlier the government had asked the universities to consider the implications of a further involvement in teacher education,

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which was really a request for their reactions to the central issue of the takeover of the teachers’ colleges. The Committee of University Presidents established a subcommittee under James Gibson, president of Brock, which would be one of the universities that would absorb a teachers’ college. The subcommittee, of which I was a member, did not meet until May 1967. In May a proposed transfer agreement with Lakehead was made public. It revealed what we had known all along about the ministry’s plans and assumption that the universities would take over the entire college staff, without any process of selection, and adopt the same curriculum and admission requirements. The Ontario Confederation of Faculty Associations found the proposal dangerous and by December 1967 had adopted a set of basic principles to govern such amalgamations. These asserted the autonomy of each university’s senate to control all academic matters, including transfer of staff, entrance requirements, and degree programs. Another ally. Again, to provoke some action I had written McCarthy on 8 September 1967: I think, in our discussions, both the President and I have indicated our personal desire to accommodate the programmes to the problem of numbers in every possible way short of jeopardizing the eventual success of our programme. I think it is in your interest, if the Minister’s statement is to be carried out, even more than in his, that an integrated programme be started and be highly successful. As far as I know – and working well ahead of the Minister’s Committee – we were, and are, the only University to enthusiastically support the idea of integration. As I explained, we are in agreement with the bulk of the Minister’s report, but have dared to assert the collective opinion of this University against that of the Minister’s Committee that basing such a programme in the Faculty, which is the heart of the University, is highly preferable to establishing a separate Faculty or School. Our proposal ensures the quality desired; the report of the Committee, as it admits by implication in insisting on so many safeguards, makes it problematical, as experience the United States and the Western Canadian Universities suggests.

While the presidents and their subcommittee attempted to find principles that were satisfactory to the ministry – painful and contentious negotiations that continued until March 1969 – York contin-

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ued to press for and protect our own proposal. At a November 1967 meeting of the Ontario deans of arts and science, it was relatively easy to persuade the deans to send a letter to Davis ‘emphasizing the concern of all the Deans that university autonomy be respected in all matters relating to the introduction of teacher education into the universities.’ With no response from Queen’s Park, it was also an easy matter to have senate approve a letter on 25 April 1968 to be sent to the minister – and to the press if a suitable reply was not received – which stated in part: The standards of teacher education in Ontario have lagged sadly behind those of most of the rest of Canada. The situation is such as to be a matter of grave concern to all the citizens, and especially all the parents, of our province. The Senate of York University is deeply concerned over the failure of the Department of Education to respond to our efforts to develop a programme of teacher education which would be of great value both as a departmental alternative to present methods and as a determined effort to bring Ontario’s teacher training back into the mainstream of educational progress. At such a time when well-prepared teachers are in very short supply, it seems incredible to us that the Department would not pursue discussions towards the implementation of York University’s imaginative plans for teacher education.

In a ‘Dear Bill’ letter on 30 April, Murray wrote that he was ‘sorry’ to send the letter but that it represented ‘the frustration of a number of our members of our Senate about the lack of action in respect of teacher education.’ Murray and Peter Scott, who had succeeded Robert Winters as board chair, had a meeting with McCarthy to which I was not invited and the nature of which I could only speculate about from the correspondence that followed. On 11 June 1968 Murray wrote to McCarthy that ‘we have had some preliminary discussion in the Executive Committee of Senate about your proposal for a Faculty of Education. The initial response was very favourable and I hope that if you send me the “one or two page letter” which Pete Scott requested, I can get agreement this month. If we leave it over to the fall it may be more difficult.’ On 22 June McCarthy replied with his proposals for a faculty of education at York having three ‘possible dimensions.’ For elementary school teachers there would be a two-year program in the Faculty of Arts to be followed by one year of professional education in the faculty

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of education. ‘The intention would be to discontinue Lakeshore Teachers’ College and transfer the operation to York University as one dimension of the Faculty of Education.’ For secondary school teachers, he proposed a year of professional training for degree holders. The third dimension was the preparation of teachers in special education – with the possibility of research in the faculty or in collaboration with departments in other faculties. Whatever Ross and Scott had agreed to or said, we did not find McCarthy’s proposal acceptable. On 27 June we had senate pass a resolution stating that it was ‘unacceptable’ and, to prevent private deals by Murray and Scott, making it clear that ‘the Senate requests that no action on the proposal be taken by any officer of the University until such time as the Academic Policy and Planning Committee [APPC] has studied the full implications of the proposal for the academic programmes of York University, and reported back to Senate thereon.’ Murray had been ill, but when he saw the resolution of senate on his return to campus, he wrote to McCarthy on 26 July that he gathered that the reaction to McCarthy’s proposal had been ‘quite negative’ but that, before the matter was discussed in APPC he wanted to know precisely what McCarthy had in mind. (1) Are you suggesting that York take over the faculty and staff at Lakeshore Teachers College? It is not quite clear from your letter, but if it is your intention that we employ these people, I think there will be great resistance to the idea. (2) Would the curriculum of the Faculty be completely under the jurisdiction of the Senate, or would it be bound by certain regulations laid down by the Department? (3) Are all appointments to be made by the University, or would we be required to consult with the Department or the Minister on any of these?

Whatever ambiguities Murray professed to find after the discussion with McCarthy, none was left after McCarthy’s blunt 4 November response: (1) I thought it had been made clear in our discussions with you and Mr. Peter Scott, at which time Mr. E.E. Stewart, Deputy Minister of University Affairs, was present, that the suggestion was that York University might undertake programs for the education of teachers for the elementary schools, for the secondary schools, and for the areas of special education. It is not feasible or desirable that the Department

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maintain a program for elementary school teachers while establishing a program for the same group at York University. Consequently, it is the intention that the Department would turn over the professional education program at Lakeshore Teachers’ College and that the operation would be accommodated in the facilities to be provided on the York campus. It is also the intention that the present Staff of the Lakeshore Teachers’ College would be transferred to the proposed Faculty of Education at York University under the general conditions discussed with the Sub-Committee on Teacher Education of the Committee of Presidents.

The curriculum would be under senate’s jurisdiction but would ‘inevitably’ be influenced by the certification requirements of the Department. Appointments would be made by the University but after consultation with and agreement by the Department. ‘I note that there was a negative reaction in the Senate to my earlier letter,’ McCarthy continued. ‘You will recall that, in our discussion with you and Mr. Scott, it was made very clear that we wished to know if York University wished to undertake teacher education programs so that, if the decision were negative, other decisions could be taken to meet the situation. It is now imperative that York’s decision in this matter be made known as soon as possible, and not later than 30th November 1968.’ Our response was to set up a committee of APPC, of which I was chair, to deal with what in effect was an ultimatum. McCarthy was also playing hardball with the Committee of University Presidents and had refused to accept a statement of principles by the subcommittee in July, largely endorsing our position, that the ‘integrating process should not be regarded as a transfer or transplanting of an existing mechanism, but rather as an entirely new undertaking within the university.’ However, it was obvious that we were alone in refusing to accept a faculty of education and equally evident that McCarthy was determined that we must take over Lakeshore. Finally, there was the pressure from Scott and Murray, at least partially politically motivated, to reach some compromise. The time had apparently come when we had to face the fact that we had to lose some to win some. When the committee of APPC met with Murray and Scott, I suggested a solution ‘designed to permit the creation of a separate faculty of education, yet to permit York to retain its jurisdiction and ensure qualitative improvement in the preparation of teachers.’ The statement of

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principles was approved by APPC on 17 December 1968 and by the senate on March 27 1969: – the faculty of education would be responsible for only the certification component – both the academic and certification components would be under the jurisdiction of senate – no students would be admitted to the faculty other than as a regularly admitted student to other faculties but would take their concurrent certification work with the faculty of education. The statement then said that we would be prepared to negotiate with the ministry for the absorption of Lakeshore providing certain conditions were met: that the principal would be only the pro-tem director of the elementary certification program; that the staff would remain such until the university chose – or did not choose – to appoint them to the faculty; that the ministry would be completely willing to phase out Lakeshore as the university phased in; and that the ministry endorse York’s concurrent program in its broad outline and, before instruction commenced, in its details. Meanwhile, after three months of tough negotiations, the committee of presidents had signed with the ministry a ‘memorandum of understanding’ made public in March 1969. Each university was to have a jointly appointed advisory committee that would advise the senate on matters such as staffing policy and curriculum. The university would set admission requirements, and all new appointments would be made in accordance with university policies, but the initial appointment of the head of the ‘facility’ would be made in consultation with the ministry, and all the teaching staff of a teachers’ college would be employed by the university for at least four years. There was one ray of hope for us, however, in the statement ‘There is no need for a uniform organizational structure for the teacher-education facility throughout the Province ... Whether there will be a college or a faculty of education, or some other structure, will be a matter for decision by the university concerned, in consultation with the Department of Education.’ When the memorandum of understanding came before senate on 27 March 1969, that body passed the principles approved by APPC as representing a position binding the university whereby we could achieve as many of our desired goals as possible within the terms of

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the memorandum. In May Murray informed McCarthy that senate had ‘approved’ the memorandum and was ready to negotiate and suggested that Dennis Healy, the new vice-president academic, be the principal liaison officer. On 3 September Healy wrote McCarthy that York was ready to negotiate and, of necessity, included the guidelines approved by senate. McCarthy was not pleased. ‘Some of the items set out in your letter as recommendations,’ he wrote on 11 September ‘go quite beyond the Guidelines and as they stand would not be capable of implementation.’ If, however, they were intended only as basis for discussion, McCarthy suggested they have lunch. As Healy was bound by the senate statement, nothing came of the luncheon discussion. We attempted to bypass the ministry in a brief to the Ontario Committee on University Affairs (CUA) in December 1969, when we reiterated our desire to move ahead, but nothing came of that. When responding to inquiries from boards of education, we blamed the ministry for the stalemate while the ministry continued to insist that our terms were unacceptable. The issue became public on 19 January 1970, when Ross Munro of the Globe and Mail wrote a story under the headline ‘York University Challenges Guidelines on Absorbing Teachers Colleges, Won’t Guarantee Job.’ Munro quoted me as having said that it would be a ‘fraud’ to absorb Lakeshore and then declare that the students were getting a university education and equally fraudulent to take the staff and fire most of them four years later. Munro seemed sympathetic to our proposed program, but quoted Davis as declaring that the ministry’s guidelines were basically sound. When David Slater became president in the summer of 1970, I briefed him on the background and current situation. He wanted to find a settlement and also achieve our objectives, and he had a long exploratory talk with McCarthy in August. McCarthy emphasized the need for an institution to prepare elementary and secondary school teachers and, above all, teachers in special education. He was backing away from his earlier position that we had to take the staff of Lakeshore. Positions at Lakeshore had recently been filled by borrowing staff from school boards, so there could be flexibility in shifting them to other positions. McCarthy recognized also that some of the staff ‘might very well be best integrated into teaching, administration, or teacher training in places other than universities.’ However, he insisted that instruction be ‘through the medium of faculties or colleges of education, but governed entirely by the regular

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university government.’ Finally, he told Slater that he found the York program attractive and strongly encouraged us to continue with the development of our thinking along the lines of ‘curriculum integration.’ On 4 September 1970 we considered Slater’s draft brief to CUA at APPC. It seemed to me that we should make our interest in a faculty of education contingent upon the fundamentals of our model being accepted. I suggested the following statements which became part of the submission: 1. An integrated concurrent curriculum of interdisciplinary studies, subject matter specialization and professional teacher training over the whole four years (rather than the addition of a layer of professional education after the academic degree work has been completed). 2. A genuine academic integration of the faculty and students engaged in Education and in academic programmes and subjects (rather than the separation and duplication which characterizes most other institutions).

Slater’s brief to CUA became integral to the draft agreement Slater sent to McCarthy in November. The model we had proposed six years earlier was in its fundamentals explicitly included in the agreement announced by Jack Welch, the new education minister, on 17 August 1971. York’s agreement, the press release stated, ‘contains unique features not present’ in other transfers of the teachers’colleges. ‘The York programme will be the first of its kind in Ontario to feature an integrated, concurrent curriculum. During the four-year and five-year programs to be provided by the faculty, students will combine inter-disciplinary studies with major subject specialization and professional teacher training.’ The release also stated that we would be the first institution in Ontario for the training of teachers of special education, and, Welch added, the York programs ‘now promise to provide a strong foundation for any future development in this field, and will undoubtedly contribute in a new and meaningful way to this most important aspect of education.’ In March 1971 we had begun to prepare for the establishment of the faculty. David Slater created an interim planning and implementation committee and asked me to be the chair. We set up subcommittees on academic planning, schools liaison, logistics and finance, and special

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education. Relations with Lakeshore were messy, particularly regarding the position of the staff, although we had agreed to run a one-year program for at least a year and possibly more as we established our own. Pending the appointment of a dean, I attended meetings of the principals and deans of faculties of education. The most important task was to find a dean for the faculty. There were many candidates of high quality. Some were invited to campus; others I interviewed during travels for other purposes. A particularly impressive possibility was Robert Overing, who had been recommended to me by Myer Horowitz of the University of Alberta. A Montreal native, Overing had taught high school before earning a doctorate in educational psychology at Utah. He had been assistant dean at McGill before joining the Faculty of Education at the University of British Columbia. During a visit to Vancouver in February 1972, I asked him to join me for a drink at the Bayshore. He described the meeting in an interview by a doctoral student in education. He wasn’t what I expected when I heard the Dean of Arts was coming. I was expecting the kind of Dean of Arts that as a young faculty member I had been familiar with at McGill and that would be a rather stuffy Englishman, aged sixty odd, a well intentioned person and a good scholar. That’s certainly not Jack. You have only to be with him for a few minutes to know that you are in the presence of a very strong, dynamic unconventional personality. He had done so much at York that the place was part of him. It came out as he talked about it with enthusiasm and excitement: how he had laid the ground work and the possibilities that existed at York for a new approach to teacher education which probably didn’t exist anywhere else. It was all very exciting to hear. The promised land.

I was impressed by Overing and so reported to the president and the committee. A week later I called him to ask whether he would accept the position. As he recalled: It wasn’t an easy decision. Teacher education was incredibly important to me. Here was a great opportunity, because you had a new university with a different perspective and a lot of spade work had already been done. There was no other university in Canada that I knew of where you could have moved in and tried to do what we did. You couldn’t have

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done this at McGill. And here at York you had this new kind of openminded university where people were very much concerned about teaching and were doing things in a different way. When Jack first told me about the interdisciplinary programs, I assumed they were like the old pandemic courses, so-called interdisciplinary courses that I had experienced at university. I had no idea how exciting the new interdisciplinary humanities, social science and natural science program would be at York, but they were a significant breakthrough in university curriculum. It fitted right in with the philosophy of the teacher as I thought the teacher should be ... I remember Jack saying, ‘I’ve sold the University on the cooperative model, the cross-appointed model and on the students being co-registered.’ If I had to step in as a foreigner at York and had had to sell them on a conceptualization of the Faculty of Education which involved their participation, it would probably have been a complete failure. Jack had done that which was terribly important, incredibly important ... It was a function of Jack Saywell and it was a function of the fact that York was much more open to new ideas and not yet set in its ways. You probably couldn’t do it now, if you turned around and tried to redo it. York, today, is twenty-five years older and I imagine much more set in its ways.

It was a very flattering recollection. But I also remember telling Overing that the task of implementing the model would not be easy. A core of faculty was committed to the idea, but whether in the long run there would be enough willing to come off their lofty intellectual perches and whether departments would be onside was a different matter. The boards were committed in principle, but, as with the faculty, their commitment in practice was uncertain. Nevertheless, Bob accepted. When he arrived in the summer of 1972 some of the spade work had been done. But the problem of turning the model into reality was daunting. It was made even more difficult because by the fall the university was in a serious financial crunch and an administrative crisis. Few of us had the time and energy to give him the support I had promised. He was on his own. As in so many cases, I was naive to assume that education could be contained within another faculty as anything other than as a small elite program. Today the Faculty of Education has 2,000 students of whom half are in the concurrent program. In 1987 at the ministry’s request the

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faculty introduced a ‘consecutive’ post-degree program to meet the demand for the latter-day-saints of the profession. More than 6,000 apply annually but fewer than 1,000 are enrolled. Three hundred students are registered in MA and PhD programs. More than 4,000 teachers are registered in largely off-campus field development courses to secure improved academic qualifications (AQ). There are forty-four tenured or tenure-track faculty. The faculty budget now is almost $15 million. The establishment of the faculty, then and later, stimulated considerable academic and professional comment, including two doctoral dissertations at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education (OISE). Reaction to the new approach to teacher education in Ontario ranged from enthusiastic to sceptical. It was generally agreed that, if successful, the program would end the three solitudes – the academic, the professional, and the practical or applied. Even among the enthusiasts there were those who doubted that it could succeed as planned, given the two different environments in the university and another in the school system. The sceptics and the doubters were right. Yet looking at the faculty today I am surprised and pleased at how much of the original model has survived and in some aspects has flourished. The most successful has been the integration of the faculty and the school system. Today there are about thirty ‘seconded faculty’ drawn from the ranks of principals and experienced classroom teachers who teach and supervise students on campus. They retain their full-time board salaries and the faculty pays the board. There are also many so-called adjunct professors who oversee and assess the work of the host teachers and students in the practicum. They assess performance and are paid by the faculty. For both the consecutive and concurrent programs, there are now nine well-established off-site campuses leased by the university, ranging from Barrie to Whitby to Regent Park in Toronto, where the students take not only their practicum but almost all of their education classes. The most obvious weakness of the original plan – and the one most often predicted – was the integration of the academic disciplines and the faculty. When the program was in its infancy in 1974–75, ten crossappointed faculty from arts and science worked from 10 to 50 per cent of their time in education. Today there are four. The faculty has its own subject ‘how-to-teach’ specialists – usually part-time on contract – who not only teach methodology but advise students about their

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courses in the disciplines. However, there is substantial cross-fertilization at the graduate level – which works both ways – and in a variety of diploma programs. On the whole, education seems far more integrated with the rest of the university than in other Ontario universities. We did not secure everything we wanted or all we believed possible. But – as in our battle with Jack McCarthy and the Ministry of Education – we learned that sometimes you may have to lose some to win some.

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11 Other New Faculties

By October 1960 the early dreams of an Ivy League York had evaporated, although the illusion persisted in the rhetoric and in the minds of Murray Ross and some of his early appointees. York was to be composed of a small liberal arts college, a college for evening and part-time students, and a large multi-faculty university. Today the university houses eleven faculties, ten of which had come into existence by the time I retired as dean in 1973. The exception is the Faculty of Health, established in 2006 largely by combining programs at Atkinson and in the Faculties of Arts and Sciences. The first York faculty was arts and science. In November 1960 a senate resolution read that ‘for the purposes of its affiliation with the University of Toronto, a Faculty of Arts and Science be established in York University, to be known as York College.’ The name York College vanished, but in April 1962 the senate (apparently) determined that the ad hoc body acting as a faculty council be formally established as a senate committee. That decision might be taken as the formal beginning of the Faculty of Arts and Science. However, York was still in many ways a college of the University of Toronto. York was housed in Toronto’s Falconer Hall and later on its land at Glendon. The minimum admission standards were the same. The curriculum was a limited sampling of Toronto’s three-year general courses, and in some cases students had to use the same texts and write the same exams. Faculty appointments had to be approved by the appropriate department at Toronto. The formal affiliation and, presumably, York College were to end in 1965. But by 1963 we set our own admission standards, admitted our first students, taught our own first-year curriculum, and hired our own faculty. In practice, the Faculty of Arts and Science really came

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into existence in 1963. And this book is largely about it and the role it played more generally in the early development of the university. Atkinson College The college for part-time evening adult students began in 1961 with a grant from the Atkinson Foundation, established by the family of Joe Atkinson, who founded the Toronto Star. Teaching began in Atkinson in the fall of 1962 with faculty seconded from the Faculty of Arts and Science. For several years, many of the staff came from that faculty: in 1964–65, for example, over $90,000 of the $900,000 salaries in our faculty were for teaching in Atkinson. The first dean was among the 1963 dissidents, Neil Morrison, and had resigned following his refusal to swear loyalty to Murray Ross. He was succeeded by Del Smythe, then assistant to the president, and in five years he put the college on sound foundations. Initially we were to monitor Atkinson appointments, but both Smythe and I tired of that game when it became evident that appointments to Atkinson and our faculty were often based on different criteria. Now called the Faculty of Liberal and Professional Studies, Atkinson has over 10,000 full- and part-time students and offers a diverse range of programs including four at the master’s level. At press time, Atkinson is being merged with the Faculty of Arts. Faculty of Science and Engineering When I arrived at York in 1963, the faculty of arts and science taught little science, with only three faculty offering courses in biology and chemistry. One of our first tasks in the fall of 1963 was to explore the possibilities and opportunities in science. Years later I learned that in May 1963 Murray had advised the board that ‘the magnitude of the problems related to the development of a high quality program in the Natural Sciences warranted the careful study of a small committee.’ The board resolved that R.F. Farquharson, David Fowle, and W.G. Schneider of the National Research Council (NRC) be asked to serve on an advisory committee on science. Murray recalled in his book on York that ‘we spent many months negotiating with William Schneider, offering him a package deal for equipment, assistants, and salaries that would involve an outlay of more than one million dollars on our part. He was, I think, greatly interested, but finally decided to

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stay at the National Research Council where he was promised he would soon be President.’ For whatever reasons, Murray told me nothing about those negotiations, nor did Fowle or Schneider. Of the three scientists on the faculty, Robert Lundell, a young chemist from MIT seemed to be the most appropriate colleague to join me in the exploration for new faculty. We visited the science departments at Toronto and McMaster, observed the progress at Waterloo, and met with Gerhard Hertzberg and Schneider at NRC. The chairs at Toronto were condescending and intimated that real science was for men not boys. The reaction at the NRC was totally different. Of course York should build a science faculty, they said, but it would be a difficult and expensive undertaking. There had to be a research focus and a critical mass of scientists who would work together. We should start small and not try to cover too much ground; even the senior undergraduate curriculum could at first be limited in scope. Where was contemporary scientific research? Where should a new school that wanted immediate recognition put its resources, and where could it find that critical mass of research scientists? At the NRC and elsewhere, we were told that upper atmosphere research was a promising field that could be best developed in an innovative interdisciplinary and multidisciplinary way. Molecular biology was also hailed as a field for the future. Upper atmosphere research seemed to be the way to go, and we secured the names of possible scientists to help launch such a program. Among the names suggested was Harold Schiff, a Torontonian with a PhD in chemistry, who was then the director of upper atmosphere research at McGill. Negotiations with Schiff went reasonably smoothly and somewhat covertly. Once the financial terms had been agreed upon, we turned to other matters. He wanted to see if Ralph Nicholls, a physicist at Western then on leave at Stanford, would join York as chair of physics. He also wanted me to ensure that he and Nicholls could bring one or two of their junior colleagues and perhaps graduate students who were working with them. Nicholls also wanted an appointment for his wife, an MD and PhD in biology. These requests posed few problems, as the appointments were spread over 1964 and 1965. Schiff also wanted time to loot some of the NRC-funded equipment from McGill, which would be of little use at McGill after his departure. He suggested that I buy him a used MGB like the one I drove, which would provide easy and frequent transport along the 401. This too seemed like an arrangement that I could finesse through a consultancy.

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He signed on in February 1964 as professor and chair of chemistry on the understanding that he would be the director of science within the faculty, although it was not clear at the beginning what his relationship would be to the Division of Natural Science. In June 1964 the board approved the appointments of the Nicholls, who were to arrive in July 1965. Schiff brought John Goodings from McGill, and Ralph Nicholls brought two colleagues from Western. Schiff immediately recruited Hugh Pritchard, a brilliant British chemist, who also arrived in 1965. In 1965 we established the Centre for Research in Experimental Space Science (CRESS) with Ralph Nicholls as its director. Harold Schiff had come as professor of chemistry, but I had assured him that he would be the dean of science within the faculty once the program was running. From his arrival in 1964, I had set the budget for science after consultation with him but had left him almost completely autonomous in recruiting and curricular and research development. After a few years, understandably, he suggested that the faculty should be split and I agreed. The separation of arts and science was customary in most Canadian universities. The arts/science division was relatively straightforward. We agreed that the three departments that gave a science and an arts degree – physical education, psychology and math – would continue to do so while the Faculty of Science would be responsible for the natural science component in our program. In January 1968 senate approved in principle the creation of a faculty of pure and applied science and referred the matter to the committee on undergraduate studies (CUS). There was considerable opposition to the proposal largely because it seemed to contradict our multi- and inter-disciplinary philosophy. However, after long and sometimes contentious meetings, CUS presented a motion to council approving the division and agreeing that the courses in the Natural Science Division be the responsibility of the new faculty but ‘on the assurance that the staff-to-student ratio and the per capita teaching costs in that programme will more closely approximate [an amendment ‘than at present’ was inserted] the level achieved and the pattern followed in the Divisions of Humanities and Social Science.’ I assured council that if we were dissatisfied, nat. sci. could be abolished, which would eliminate a large portion of the science budget! Council also approved ‘testing’ the proposal that the BSc degree in the three departments be offered through the new faculty, with appropriate budgetary arrangements.

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However, the government’s Committee on University Affairs (CUA) suspected that the inclusion of ‘applied’ in the title of the new faculty could be a back door entry into engineering and the board of governors shared this concern. In senate on 23 May 1968, Schiff stated that the programs would be the same as those currently offered and moved that the name be changed to the faculty of science. For six months committees deliberated over the name of the existing Faculty of Arts and Science. Some wanted to leave it as it was, but Schiff strongly objected on the grounds that it would create confusion. The executive committee then proposed to council that we be called the faculty of arts and social science, but later amended it to the faculty of arts. As of 12 July 1968 Harold was dean of science and I was dean of arts and science! The final nomenclature was approved in the spring of 1969, and two new faculties formally came into existence on 1 July 1969. That back door was later opened, and in 2001 the Faculty of Science and Engineering began offering engineering programs. Today the faculty enrols more than 4,000 undergraduates and more than 400 graduate students. It has 150 full-time faculty who in 2005 received over $18 million in research awards. The Faculty of Health and the Development of Physical Education The Faculty of Health was established in 2006 by combining elements from arts, science, and Atkinson. The Department of Psychology and the School of Kinesiology and Health Science were taken from arts and science. Psychology had always been the largest arts department in terms of both students and faculty and in 2006 had about 14 per cent of the full-time equivalent (FTE) student enrolment. Kinesiology had almost 5 per cent. The creation of the new faculty produced some grumbling in the Faculty of Arts but apparently little in the two departments concerned. York had established a Department of Athletics in 1964 and appointed Bryce Taylor as assistant director and associate professor of kinesiology and health science but not in a designated faculty. No one could question Taylor’s credentials or his talent. A British Columbian, he had a masters in physical education from UBC and a doctorate from Springfield. In a feasibility study of professional faculties for the president in 1964, Henry Best had recommended a health services faculty in which physical education could be included. Soon after he arrived,

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Taylor prepared a long prospectus for a physical education program. In December 1965 he appeared before a senate committee on professional faculties, which was not very sympathetic to the venture. I appeared before the committee on 15 December. According to the minutes, ‘while explaining that he could not speak for Council [Saywell] stated that he personally had negative reservations about granting the degree in physical education through the Faculty of Arts and Science. He said that he had difficulty in determining the academic content of certain of the subjects – and indeed, of how the entire programme could be fitted in to the existing curriculum.’ I was also uncertain how it would satisfy the requirements of our proposed program in teacher education. Ultimately, the committee recommended that a faculty not be created, but without prejudice to any other proposal that might emerge. The ‘without prejudice’ was welcome because I had been impressed by Taylor. He patiently explained to me that the activities component would not carry academic credit and that the other courses had solid academic content. In April 1966 council agreed in principle to the establishment of a program in physical education. In November council approved an honours program as refined by Taylor within the (then) Faculty of Arts and Science that could qualify for either an arts or science degree. The program was integrated within our curricula throughout the four years and, depending on course selection, graduates could qualify for a Type B teaching certificate in a minor disciplinary field as well as the Type A in physical education. Teaching began in the fall of 1967, with thirty-eight putative students in first-year arts. In 1969 we created a full-fledged department. The program was soon recognized, inside and outside the university, as of superior quality and design. In 1994 the name was changed to the School of Kinesiology and Health Science; in 2006 the school became part of the new Faculty of Health. Faculty of Graduate Studies In January 1963 the senate created a committee ‘to explore the nature and organization of a Graduate program suitable to York University.’ Chaired by Mort Appley, the dynamic promoter of graduate work, the committee in May recommended the immediate establishment of the Faculty of Graduate Studies. In my interview with Appley prior to my appointment as dean, I had expressed serious reservations about

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beginning graduate work until the departments were soundly staffed, particularly with senior faculty. However, I soon realized that, without the promise of graduate work, senior faculty would be reluctant to come to York and that promising and ambitious younger candidates would be tempted to look elsewhere. By the summer of 1963 I fully accepted the logic as well as the sense of caution and urgency that characterized Appley’s report to senate. While the committee reported that most departments thought that they could not be ready for graduate work until 1967 at the earliest, they observed that ‘the lack of regular graduate programmes during the next four years is considered to be a most serious handicap to the continued development of a strong faculty, which in turn will jeopardize not only the development of graduate work at York but the quality of undergraduate instruction as well.’ Senate endorsed the recommendations for the immediate establishment of a faculty, the appointment of a dean, and the acceptance of a small number of graduate students as early as 1964–65. Congratulating the committee for its report, Murray Ross asked professors Hans Carol, George Doxey, and Edgar McInnis to discuss with him the next steps to be taken. Whatever their advice, Murray informed the board on 6 June that ‘senate’ had recommended the appointment of McInnis as dean and, although Murray had promised Mort Appley the deanship, he told him that the ‘board’ felt that the dean should be a Canadian and that he had reluctantly agreed to appoint McInnis. Appley was to become dean two years later when McInnis resigned, but he never overcame a sense of betrayal and found it less difficult to leave York two years later. From the beginning, graduate work was simply an extension of the work of qualified members of the undergraduate departments, largely in arts and science. Glendon and Atkinson, however, insisted that their faculty also had the right of appointment. In a planning report on the growth of the faculty in April 1964, I had stated that a ‘very strong case could be made that the Dean of the Graduate School works in the faculty office.’ Recruiting would be done by the departments and the dean of the undergraduate faculty and ‘it is there that the whole structure of our graduate programmes will take shape ... I refrain from arguing the case but I think it should be seriously considered for the first five years.’ There was a general feeling, however, that the dean of the graduate school should have some independent authority.

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My assessment proved to be incorrect, for the Faculty of Graduate Studies would come to include many more programs than those in arts and science and would be an enormous financial and administrative responsibility. Today there are forty-five graduate degree programs from all faculties, with about 5,000 students and 1200 graduate faculty. Throughout my tenure I successfully opposed a two-tiered faculty that would have resulted if faculty were appointed only to the graduate school. I also opposed the practical or independent authority of the graduate dean to appoint the directors of the graduate programs, who were in fact selected by the members of the graduate faculty in the undergraduate department(s). As late as February 1972, when the question of the independence of the dean and the graduate directors arose, I argued that the separation of graduate and undergraduate studies in arts was simply not feasible because graduate directors must work with the departmental chair in the allocation of budget resources, recruiting priorities, teaching loads, and teaching assistants. I realized it was in the development of the graduate programs that York could most easily and quickly build a reputation as a home of scholarship. It would be a long time before we could rival the reputation of Toronto or Queen’s as a top-flight undergraduate school. But with highly selective appointments at the senior level and the inclusion of promising junior faculty, the graduate faculty and programs could quickly be visible and competitive. My main concern in recruiting was to ensure the growth and quality of the graduate programs. The first students were admitted in psychology in 1964; by 1973 we had masters’ and doctoral programs in all the major departments, with 254 full-time doctoral students. In my judgment (and that of many others outside the university), York had strongest graduate program in Canadian history, in some areas of geography, political science, philosophy, sociology and English, and the most balanced program in psychology in the country. Glendon College Glendon Hall, a small estate at Bayview and Lawrence Avenues in north Toronto, had been given to York by the University of Toronto to accommodate students while the main campus was under construction. However, despite the opposition of Claude Bissell, the president of the University of Toronto, the transfer was soon considered to be permanent, and York decided to build a small liberal arts college at

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Glendon. However, Glendon College itself did not formally come into existence until 1966. During the April 1964 meeting of the university’s master plan committee, I outlined our plans for the transition of the faculty from Glendon to the York campus. We had to work on certain assumptions about the programs Glendon would offer and how many of the faculty would choose, or be compelled or permitted, to remain there. Our plans called for all first-year students to register at York and all science courses to be taught at the main campus. The arts departments would remain at Glendon, but all faculty involved in the firstyear program would have offices both at York and Glendon. All arts departments would move to York in 1966, making the necessary arrangements to teach students who had entered in 1963 and 1964 if they chose to remain at Glendon. The umbilical cord between the two campuses would be cut in 1968. In September 1965 the entering classes arrived at the York main campus to find bare fields and an incomplete Founders College. There were few windows or doors for either the office wing or the student residence. The students didn’t seem unhappy but many parents were irate and some took their children home until the building was secure. The master, John Conway, seemed to have made no preparations for their arrival and was not to be seen. Only a few faculty had moved to Founders; the scientists were housed in the Farquarhson Life Science building, which opened that summer. Large lectures were given in Steadman and the Burton Auditorium, each of which was more or less finished by the fall of 1965. In the summer of 1966 the transition to the main campus was – like all else – more or less complete. I had had a small office in the Steacie Science Library from 1964 to 1966 but had spent most of my time at Glendon. In the summer of 1966 Vanier College opened and we set up shop there until the Behavioural Science building was ready in November, when, much to the dismay of the psychologists, we took the largest suites of offices. York had neither anticipated nor planned for such an acute space shortage. In 1966, at the government’s request, the board had agreed to spread a three-year building program over five, but the government had not agreed to let us adjust our intake. Labour disputes in the summers of 1967 and 1968 put four buildings well behind schedule and delayed the arrival of Osgoode, officially a faculty on 1 July 1968, until 1969. However, by the summer of 1969 Winters and McLaughlin Colleges were completed. The fortress-like Ross building, soon to be

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labelled the Kremlin, and Central Square were also largely finished. Many departments moved to Ross and we took over the south wing of the ninth floor – where the dean of arts remains today. Glendon College admitted its first class in 1966. After much searching for a principal and some rejections by senior officers in External Affairs and the public service, we agreed that Murray Ross should approach Escott Reid, one-time high commissioner to India and ambassador to Germany, then with the World Bank in Washington. Like others I knew something of his distinguished diplomatic career and I also knew that he had done some pioneering work on Canadian political parties for his unfinished doctorate. Some of Murray’s familiar rhetoric found its way into a letter to Reid in the summer of 1964. He portrayed Glendon College as the Canadian version of Swarthmore, Amherst, and Reed, as a college that should have as its ‘distinct ethos, both in its curriculum and outside – a compelling interest in public affairs.’ Reid had written Prime Minister Lester Pearson that when he left the bank he wished ‘to join your teams in a position where I would be able to use my abilities in the service of my country.’ Pearson, apparently, could not satisfy his ambition and encouraged him to take Murray’s offer of Glendon, which he did in January 1965, to become official on 1 January 1966. My relations with Escott were cordial and respectful, but he was the sixty-year-old veteran of the diplomatic wars, accustomed to being the captain of his ship, and I was the brash thirty-six-year-old who happened at the beginning to be senior to the ambassador. It had been assumed since 1962 that Glendon would be a separate faculty, but a senate–board committee also determined that the college ‘must coordinate programmes with comparable Divisions and Departments of the University.’ By December 1963 the senate executive had become more precise, adding that the principal of the college ‘shall work closely with the Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science so that the educational programme of the College is closely coordinated with that of the University, and that appointments and standards are of mutual acceptability.’ Operationally, no appointments to the Glendon faculty were to be made ‘without the consent of the Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science after consultation with the Chairmen of the University department or division concerned.’ Finally, it was recommended that the council of the faculty continue its responsibility of guiding the academic program of Glendon College on a day-to-day basis until 1 July 1966. The board accepted the senate statement on the understanding

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‘that in carrying out its responsibilities the [Glendon] planning committee use every appropriate means to strengthen the concept of a single university with common standards and equal programs throughout its various colleges and faculties.’ These procedures inevitably created a certain amount of tension between Reid and myself, particularly on his side. He was not one to accept any kind of subordination; once determined on his course, he pursued it with a vigour and relentlessness that served only to reinforce the arrogance that his contemporaries witnessed. Our first academic encounter occurred in the summer of 1965, when, still in Washington, he sent me several lists of people to whom he wished to offer positions. It was painfully evident that he grossly overestimated the attraction of Glendon College and that he knew little of the nature of academic pursuits and ambitions. Among those listed were Dennis Wrong and Nathan Keyfitz in sociology. I replied that Wrong had already turned us down, and, as chair of the prestigious Department of Sociology at Chicago, Keyfitz was not likely to jump ship. The same pattern was true of his suggestions for economics. I observed that Tony Scott had turned us down and was wedded to UBC and that Malcolm Urquhart had just taken the chair at Queen’s. In history he proposed Fernand Ouellett and Marcel Trudel, each of whom had deserted Laval for Carleton; Jean Hamelin, whom I agreed might be interested (he was not) and Laurier Lapierre, who lacked a strong scholarly reputation and had just taken a high-paying job at McGill. I admitted that Ramsay Cook was a fine historian in whom I had an interest once we started the doctoral program, but who was unlikely to be attracted to a small undergraduate college. For political science he had named Peter Russell of Toronto, Hugh Thorburn of Queen’s (who had turned York down), and John Meisel, who could never be moved from Queen‘s. He later listed Jim Eayrs (who was writing his own ticket at Toronto), Steve Dupré, and David Corbett. Almost without exception, they were fine academics, and we approved them all, but I could not see any of them accepting a position either as chair or faculty member at Glendon, and so informed Escott in a long memo. His list was an early confirmation of Ross’s comment to Pat Pattullo that ‘Escott Reid seems to have some terribly ambitious ideas for Glendon and he seems a little bit worried as to whether they are sufficiently close to real possibilities.’ Murray had also asked me to inform Reid of the policy and procedures for making senior appointments – inquiry, CV, letters of recom-

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mendation, campus visit and interviews, and a firm offer after agreement by the president In a letter to the president, Reid proposed that he make firm offers to Scott (or Urquhart), Corbett (or Dupre), and Wrong (or Keyfitz) and suggested salaries of $18,000. ‘ I assume that my letters .... would be a firm offer and that in view of their standing it is not necessary to carry out the procedures outlined at the bottom of page 3 of Dean Saywell’s letter.’ Moreover, he added, ‘I have reservations about the applicability to Glendon College of the procedures set forth in Dean Saywell’s letter not only as it concerns these five people but other possible appointments as chairmen. It would certainly be my hope that I would not offer the chairmanship of any department to someone who may require many letters of reference.’ In his memoirs, Escott wrote that the appointments procedure astonished and dismayed him. When Murray had asked him how he could contemplate appointing people he had never met, he had replied that ‘Mackenzie King had asked St. Laurent to join the cabinet even though he had not met him and I had confidence in the judgment of the people I had consulted.’ In the end, if offers were made, none was accepted. Escott later claimed that he might have succeeded but for the bizarre red tape in the university. As he wrote, ‘My painful education in university affairs was proceeding apace.’ There was more, if not worse, to come. By the spring of 1965, he had prepared a curricular prospectus for the college and, as required, submitted it to me for submission to our faculty council. His proposal called for honours work in at least economics, history, political science, and sociology, ‘with a distinct emphasis on the Canadian aspects of these studies.’ All students were to acquire skill in the use of French and English through two years of compulsory study and were to take one course in each of the general education divisions and modes of reasoning. There was to be a second-year course in psychology and a third-year course in sociology in all departments, as well as fourthyear courses in all programs in philosophy, Canadian economic and social development, and Canadian government and politics. Since our Committee on Undergraduate Studies (CUS) could not reach agreement on this prospectus, they instructed me to take a report to council with ten general resolutions about the proposed curriculum. In council the burden fell on me to salvage something of Reid’s proposals, but that burden was much too heavy to bear. Despite my observation that a college of a thousand students could not support more then five departments and some service courses, council by over-

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whelming votes added honours work in English, French, philosophy, and mathematics to Reid’s original proposal. I was able to secure the withdrawal of a motion to abolish compulsory English and French by arguing that it was ‘a serious substantive alteration’ to Reid’s fundamental intention of making Glendon the ‘first bilingual college in the country.’ To get us, and Reid, out of the mess, Mort Appley moved that the report of the discussion and the resolution as amended ‘be referred to the Secretary of the Senate for the drafting of a more general proposition in support of the concept of a public affairs emphasis for Glendon College for the consideration of the Senate.’ Luckily, the motion passed. The senate executive committee worked over the document and brought a report to senate on 24 June 1965. Additional amendments were made adding honours programs in French, English, and philosophy and suggesting that others be added later, acknowledging that finances might be a limiting factor. Much to Reid’s annoyance, senate went only so far as to view ‘with sympathy’ his bilingual proposal. Although he had decided that the general education courses must be a graduation requirement, senate added what he called ‘a joker’ by insisting that the first two years of the curriculum not deviate substantially from that in arts. Reid told Murray that the requirement would make it impossible to emphasize English and French in the first two years and, not for the first or last time, threatened not to take up his post ‘if Senate persisted in this view.’ In September, Reid circulated another memo for senate, reiterating the importance of a residential college of high standards and of ensuring that 25 per cent student and faculty were French Canadians, and the absolute necessity of bilingualism. He accepted a faculty of seven departments but underlined the emphasis on public affairs. At senate on 8 December 1965 his final statement about Glendon was approved. ‘The core of the training of all students will be insistence upon skill in the use and appreciation of the English language. All students will be able to speak and read French with reasonable facility. There will be a strong emphasis on interdisciplinary work in all years of the curriculum. All students will, whenever feasible, come together in their final year in seminars to study and discuss some aspect of philosophy and either Canadian economic and social development or Canadian government and politics.’ I was on the sidelines for much of the rest of the Glendon story. However, its creation in 1966 and failure to attract and retain students

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meant that our faculty had to ship some surplus first-year students to Glendon. Moreover, more than half of Glendon’s first-year students dropped out or moved to the York campus in their second year, and more followed a year later. Of Glendon’s 1966 class, only 40 per cent remained two years later, and enrolments kept dropping – from 360 entering students in 1968 to 300 in 1970. Because we lacked space at York for all first-year students, we were happy to assist Glendon by sending some there. Not until Glendon established a unilingual stream in 1971, when Reid had been replaced by Albert Tucker, did the college meet its enrolment targets. Even then, many of the students were from those who had applied originally to the Faculty of Arts and were told that space was available only at Glendon. Not until 1986 was bilingualism again compulsory. I was not in favour of the introduction of the unilingual stream because it would remove the distinctive feature of the college and could jeopardize its future. But in the end I concluded that either it had to be introduced or the Glendon model should be moved to the York campus, where there might be a sufficient number of students interested in its bilingual curriculum to allow it to exist. In truth, I believe that Escott Reid wanted to be not just principal of Glendon College but the president of his own university. He certainly resented having to deal with me on appointments, and I soon tired of the game. Reid and Dean Smythe of Atkinson successfully demanded that their faculty could be appointed directly to the graduate faculty without being cross appointed the arts departments; both men seemed opposed to any form of cooperation. Unable to persuade the president or the province that Glendon needed funding adequate for its mission, Reid once embarked on a public fundraising campaign, only to be slapped down by the board of governors. He seemed more than happy to leave at the end of 1969, when he was about to reach the age of sixtyfive. Glendon College was three years old and he had been on the job less than five. I had brought his successor, Albert Tucker, from Western in 1966 with the thought that he would make an excellent successor to Edgar McInnis as history chair if he chose to remain at Glendon. Tucker wanted to improve relations with the dean’s office, as did I, and soon after he took office in 1970 he invited me to drink and dine with the senior faculty at Glendon. We discussed faculty exchanges, which we both favoured in principle, and agreed that joined appointments would be desirable in special fields. When we discussed graduate

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work, I had to remind them that the decision not to work through the arts departments inevitably meant that Glendon had to make the appropriate budgetary provisions if it wanted its faculty to teach in the graduate program. I also stated that I was opposed to a unilingual stream, which, I wrote later, ‘might jeopardize [the existence of Glendon], for a very short term and very minimal financial gain.’ Within a year, however, when even a minimum financial gain seemed imperative to save the college, the Glendon faculty and the senate approved the unilingual stream. Although for many years its survival was at times in doubt, Glendon was to become a success story. In the 1980s the bilingual stream was brought back by Principal Garigue, and enrolment finally increased, due in part to the arrival of many immigrant children some of whom were francophone. Today the college has more than 2,000 undergraduates and ninety full-time faculty. In many ways Glendon has returned to its original conception, particularly that of Escott Reid. All students now study in each official language. In 2006, under Principal Kenneth McRoberts, a bilingual Quebec specialist from the Political Science Department, Glendon established a Graduate School of Public Affairs for which it received a million-dollar grant from the Bank of Montreal. The school ‘will be unique in Canada,’ McRoberts stated. ‘It will respond to the demand from federal and provincial governments for fully bilingual leaders and public service employees.’ Professional Faculties As dean of the Faculty of Arts, I had little involvement in the creation of three of the professional faculties. In a 1964 study, Henry Best, research assistant to the president and part-time lecturer in history, had recommended the establishment of a faculty of administrative studies that would offer bachelor and masters’ degrees in business administration and a masters in public administration. The proposal was enthusiastically endorsed by the board in January 1965. A dean was to be appointed for July 1965, with classes to begin in September 1966. Murray Ross then persuaded James Gillies to take a year’s leave from the University of California at Los Angeles Business School to come to York as assistant to the president for education in business. Gillies worked well and quickly, and in December 1965 the broad outlines of the curriculum were approved by senate.

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Although Gillies did not believe in an undergraduate education in business, he reluctantly concluded that a BBA was, if not wise, probably essential. At the same time, he believed that business students should have at least some broader exposure in arts and science. For that reason, his proposal called for an indirect entry to the BBA program after two years in arts and science. I supported him, although I wondered how the final admission to the BBA would be determined. As it turned out, many more students were admitted to York who intended to do the BBA than could be accommodated with a limited enrolment of 200 BBA students. In 1992 the faculty moved to direct entry, although it is still possible to enter the BBA program after two years of arts. Now named the Schulich School of Business, the faculty did not achieve a national and international reputation for its quality until it was invigorated by Dejo Horvath, who became dean in 1988 and who is, as I write in 2007, still in that office. My role in the establishment of the Graduate Faculty of Environmental Studies in 1968 was even more remote. I supported the idea of an inter- or multi-disciplinary faculty, as opposed to the sidewalk-narrowing in schools of urban planning. I was also impressed by Gerald Carrothers, the leading candidate for the deanship, although I was dubious about the students’ capacity to take advantage of the proposed looseness and lack of structure in the curriculum. These doubts were confirmed years later when I taught in the faculty. From the beginning it was committed to interdisciplinarity; today its thirty-six faculty represent more than a dozen disciplines. Intended to be exclusively a graduate faculty, it now offers a BES as well as an MES and the PhD. The affiliation of York with Osgoode was very different. The Law Society of Upper Canada, having decided to get out of legal education, approached York in 1964 to take over the faculty. An agreement between the Benchers of the Ontario Law Society and the York board was reached in October 1965, and senate approved the establishment of the Faculty of Law a month later. The proposal that Osgoode join York was contentious. Some at Osgoode, led by the dean, were adamantly opposed to the idea of what they regarded as a practitioners’ school joining a university. They were joined by others who accepted the merger idea but preferred a downtown location. A third group, mainly of younger and more academically oriented faculty, enthusiastically supported the merger. Murray desperately wanted Osgoode, for it would add immediate and much-needed prestige to

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York, and he wanted it on the York campus. But at times it seemed that, if push came to shove, he and the board would accept a downtown location. Early in the deliberations I supported the Osgoode academic faction, much to the annoyance of the Osgoode dean and others, and I was blunt in my view that Osgoode was of no use to York if it remained downtown. I was not involved in the final deliberations, but at several nocturnal sessions I gave moral support to the academics, who ultimately won the battle. Fine Arts I was very much involved in the creation of the Faculty of Fine Arts. I suspect that the idea of a fine arts program or faculty had originated with Bill Kilbourn, chair of humanities and a man of wide intellectual and aesthetic interests. By the fall of 1964 he had won my support, although I was uncertain about how the various historical, theoretical, aesthetic, and practical components could be reconciled within one program. That was also the opinion of one senate committee, which concluded that, while there was no doubt that art history, musicology, and theatre arts had long been appropriate university subjects, training in musical performance and theatrical production had ‘a chequered career as subject of university study.’ In the spring of 1966 a second committee recommended, and senate approved, a resolution that fine arts be York’s top priority for a new faculty. Students would enter the faculty at the end of their second year in arts. Initially the faculty would offer programs in the visual and performing arts, but the committee recognized that, upon arrival, the dean ‘may wish to alter the structure slightly and, with the advice of Council, should be allowed to do so.’ In the fall of 1967 senate established a committee, of which I was chair, on the curriculum and structure of the Faculty of Fine Arts. I proposed that my colleagues should be Eli Mandel, a distinguished poet; Brian Dixon, a professor in administrative studies and also a fine sculptor with a wide interest in the arts; and Henry Best, who in a 1964 report to the president had concluded that Ontario needed such a faculty. I realized at once that we needed a secretariat and was fortunate to secure Sylvia Zingrone, who decades later became chief of staff to President Lorna Marsden. She was invaluable in arranging the many meetings and travel plans over the next few months, as well as offering wise and informed advice. Our first step was to meet with the

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major cultural communities in Toronto to determine their views of the overall cultural needs of the community. Throughout September and November we held lengthy meetings, usually followed by drinks and dinner, with groups from the visual arts – including gallery owners and artists – film, music, and dance. The meetings were generally positive, although many of the professionals were sceptical of the real value of academic work in their area. We were dismissed by a very prominent ballerina and an officer of the National Ballet School with the comment that a ballerina was born not made and, if made, was so by the age of six. Modern dance advocates were more responsive. Singly or collectively, we visited a great variety of fine arts programs in Canadian and American universities. In New York we met Dr Monroe Lippman, head of the Theatre Department of New York University’s School of Fine Arts. Dixon and Mandel attended the meeting of the National Council of Fine Arts Deans in New Orleans and while there had discussions with W. MacNeil Lowry, director of the Ford Foundation in Humanities and the Arts. I went to California, where I combined my explorations with recruiting for the Faculty of Arts, visiting the University of Southern California and the University of California campuses at Los Angeles, Berkeley, and Irvine. The enormous differences of opinion about the proposed faculty ranged from the almost completely ‘academic’ to the largely applied as well as deep commitments to their particular approach. Best examined the programs at Northwestern, Chicago, University of Illinois, and the Art Institute of Chicago. We also had a good discussion with James Domville, director general of the National Theatre School in Montreal, where we sensed doubts about anything approaching professional acting training in a university. Finally, we met with Ministry of Education and school officials to explore their need for classroom teachers in the fine arts, which I thought would be an excellent fit with our proposed teacher education program. In February 1968 we reported to senate. We recommended the establishment of a faculty of fine arts that would initially offer majors in visual arts, theatre arts, and film. Music, dance, and creative writing would be introduced when feasible. Students would be admitted to York in the fall of 1968 knowing they could graduate in the three areas offered. They would satisfy the arts entrance requirements, but we realized that the term ‘or its equivalent’ would have to be more broadly defined for putative fine arts students than for others. All students would enter the Faculty of Arts and satisfy its first-year require-

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ments, but not necessarily within the first year. We noted that we had had fruitful discussions with the Division of Humanities about expanding course offerings in the broad cultural area of fine arts that would be open to all but might be taken as a second humanities course by students heading to fine arts. We had also concluded that the precedent of permitting undergraduates to enter the Faculty of Administrative Studies at the end of their second year should not be followed. Rather they should enter fine arts at the beginning of their second year and be allowed to move into an area of specialization, as was permitted for students in arts and science. We recommended that students in fine arts take at least five obligatory courses beyond first-year requirements in the Faculty of Arts. Not only did we believe this was good pedagogy, but it also reflected the requirements and experience of universities we had visited or from which we had received calendars. Without too much precision, we indicated that degree programs in the faculty must provide background in at least two fields either through distribution requirements or multi-media courses. We also insisted that students must satisfy requirements in both academic and studio components of the subject. The motion based on our report passed with little discussion. In quest of a dean, Murray struck a presidential search committee, chaired by Jim Gillies and with Bill Kilbourn and me as members. We decided almost at once that professional experience, of which there was abundance in Toronto, was not what a new faculty needed but that there were very few professionals in Canada with the necessary university experience. Our search soon found a number of suitable candidates from the United States, Jules Heller being the most attractive. Heller had a PhD from the University of Southern California and, when contacted, was dean of the College of Arts and Architecture at Pennsylvania State, where he had a large faculty and a broad program. Heller was a printmaker of some reputation. He and his wife were a cultured couple with wide-ranging artistic interests. The man found, it was up to Murray to recruit him, and he did. Later visiting Heller’s apartment in Toronto’s Annex, we marvelled at how someone on a dean’s salary could afford such opulence. I did not know the truth until Murray published his memoirs. Heller, it seemed, would not come on anything like our decanal salaries. But he had created such a favourable impression with the board that one member proposed to Murray that he would hire him as an art consultant at a handsome fee that would provide the necessary augmentation. Heller got the faculty

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off to a good start, but he was frustrated by the lack of resources and had no taste for the politics that developed in the early 1970s. He took sabbatical in 1973 and was succeeded by Joe Green, whom we had recruited before Heller arrived. Heller came back from sabbatical but left after a year. By universal agreement, the faculty has been an outstanding success. Unique in the Ontario system, it offers academic studies and professional training in all the fine arts disciplines: dance, design, film, music, theatre, and visual arts, as well as interdisciplinary fine arts cultural studies. In addition to the undergraduate BA and BFA degrees, the faculty has programs leading to the MA, MFA, and PhD. In 2007 it had almost 3,000 undergrads and 200 graduate students, more than 100 tenured faculty, almost 200 contract faculty, 130 teaching and research assistants, and a budget of over $25 million. York graduates are highly visible in all aspects of the arts not only in Toronto but across Canada, and the faculty’s cooperation with the arts and media MBA in the Faculty of Administrative Studies has placed graduates in important administrative and managerial positions in the cultural industry.

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12 The Dean’s Chair

I would never be dean of a faculty today, for the same reasons I gave to Claude Bissell in 1962 in not aspiring to such an office at the University of Toronto. There is little room for creative administration, for helping to shape a faculty or even a university. There are a few exceptions such as deans of professional schools or of new or emerging faculties or those fortunate enough to secure massive inputs of external funding. A dean for the most part is a pusher of paper, buffeted, on one side, by determined centralists in the president’s office who are strengthened by the built-in authoritarianism of most boards and, on the other, by senate, faculty councils, departmental (usually factional) democracy, and impotent chairs, as well as by faculty, staff, and graduate student unions. At best, a dean can only nudge history a little at the margins. Deans of large faculties in large universities today usually seem to be remote figures, virtually unknown to their faculty and students. My deanship at York in 1963 was a far cry from that in the large universities today. Initially York had only one major faculty and one major dean. Atkinson College existed but was a relatively insignificant player; Glendon, the business school, and Osgoode were later arrivals. There were presidential committees and senate and council and their committees, but because the dean of arts and science was a member of all major committees, he was inevitably a central figure in the development of the university as a whole. From 1963 to 1970, Murray Ross gave the deans a light rein; indeed, his administrative style as regards each faculty could be described as laissez-faire, which certainly suited me. Although much had changed by the time I left the deanship in 1973, much remained the same. When David Slater became president in

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1970, York’s many deans were collectively the locus of policy formation and budget deliberations. Today the university appears to be controlled by a powerful centralized presidential administration with a horde of chiefs of staff, planners, policy analysts, fundraisers, and vicepresidents, most of whom seem remote from the central purposes of the academy. Senate and its committees were becoming increasingly powerful by 1973, but representative government seldom works without some form of political or executive leadership – and that to a large extent was provided by the deans. The President It was hard not to like Murray Ross, but we all discovered sooner or later that he often promised more than he could deliver or that he made commitments with his fingers crossed. When reminded, he would respond with a disarming chuckle, convenient forgetfulness, sometimes denial, and often bring the board of governors to his aid. As the February 1963 Pro Tem episode and its aftermath revealed (see chapter 2), he wanted his faculty to be loyal to him. He also demanded loyalty from at least his senior staff. Neil Morrison, dean of Atkinson, was forced to resign in August 1963, when he would not pledge his loyalty to the president. Pat Pattullo’s resignation in 1965 was in part motivated by the president’s refusal to stand behind him in the row with John Conway, not only because Conway was ‘in’ with the board but because Pattullo had disagreed with Ross on academic matters. I believe that I was loyal to what I regarded as the best interests of the university and would disagree with Ross – usually in private but sometimes in public – when I believed he was wrong. In his memoirs, Murray admitted that he would have preferred someone more loyal: Saywell had outstanding qualities as a dean ... Of course, he had his faults: he was headstrong and at times abrasive. I was often asked by others why I kept Saywell as dean. The reason was very simple: he was the best dean of arts and science, and later dean of arts, that I knew. He was power conscious and was politically conscious. But these may well be attributes of a good dean. As long as he was productive, he was performing outstanding service for the university, and that was what was important. I learned to live with the many differences of views we had. It would have been more comfortable for me to have someone with more loyalty personally in the crucial position, but I could not conceive of a

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person with more initiative, drive, and ability in his particular spot. As his faculty developed and more senior men joined us, his effectiveness came under question by some of his colleagues. But such criticism is inevitable, and there is no question that as dean his leadership was outstanding.

Despite these fine sentiments, I knew that, deep down, Ross would have been happier with someone more deferential and compliant. And I think he found my position – with its support from faculty, in council, and senate – disturbing, if not menacing. In 1965 he commissioned a report by Henry Best, his research assistant, to study the best organization of the faculty. Best dutifully replied that, although Toronto had a faculty of arts and science, most universities had wisely split such faculties, and he suggested that York should consider splitting theirs into faculties of letters, arts, science, and applied science. Two years later Harold Schiff and I agreed to divide the faculty, but that decision did not arise from any presidential pressure or senate edict. However, on many occasions, with that disarming smile and chuckle, Ross would suggest a further division of arts, and on each occasion, without a smile, I said I would oppose it. In truth, I think I was somewhat paranoid about my relations with Murray Ross, but other colleagues shared my paranoia. In the spring of 1964 he asked me what I wanted to do the following year. I was dumbfounded and said so. ‘I thought I had come as dean of arts and science,’ I replied. ‘Oh, is that what you want?’ he responded. In April I was officially appointed, and, as far as I can determine, my appointment was without limit of term, although five years with the possibility of reappointment was traditional and appropriate. In October 1968 Murray informed the secretary of the faculty council that my term would be up in the 1968–69 academic year and that he and I had agreed that, before a recommendation went to the board, ‘the situation should be reviewed’ by a presidential committee of five, three of whom would be elected by council. Duly elected were Douglas Verney (political science), Lionel Rubinoff (a Murray favourite from philosophy), and John Priestley (French). I still do not know who the president’s appointments were and neither do the faculty members of the committee! Murray’s account of the outcome in his memoirs is somewhat ambiguous: In the case of Saywell the recommendation was that if certain minor changes could be made, and the committee felt they could, Saywell

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should be reappointed. But the committee asked for a private meeting with me at which they elaborated the conditions of reappointment in a manner that they also tended to favour a five-year term. With a public document that recommended reappointment, and a private report that urged caution, I was, however, in a dilemma. If I did not reappoint, I would have to reveal confidences that I was not free to do. So I reappointed for a one-year term.

In January 1969 Ross informed council that the presidential committee had recommended my reappointment: ‘I propose now to discuss the Committee report in detail with Dean Saywell and, if he is agreeable, to recommend his reappointment to the Board of Governors.’ I have no recollection of a discussion with him about reappointment or of a oneyear term. On 13 January 1969 Ross reported to the board; the minutes record only that ‘no action is required regarding the appointment of the Dean of Arts and Science.’ There was no mention of my term. As I was writing this book, I tried to find out about the report and the private consultations and wrote the three faculty members on the committee. Verney, whom Ross had made chair, recalls that the president knew he was unhappy about the salary increase I had given him and ‘thought I was a natural to ensure that you were not recommended as Dean. My own view was that I was appointed to consider your appointment on its merits and that my personal experience was probably irrelevant. Most important was what did the faculty think? The committee carried out extensive soundings among the faculty and the consensus was that you should be reappointed.’ In a later letter, he wrote ‘I have no recollection of ever meeting him about the report, or having him bring pressure to bear on me or my colleagues.’ Lionel Rubinoff wrote that he didn’t recall much about the committee: ‘I don’t remember whether there was a written report ... Nor do I recall any evidence of serious expression of discontent with your conduct as Dean. I do recall that many of us marveled at the fact that in spite of the heavy burden of responsibilities associated with your deanship, you were able to maintain an impressive display of scholarship. It may well be that the report of the committee was made verbally.’ John Priestley has no recollection of the episode. In May 1969, although he had announced his resignation as of 30 June 1970, Murray appointed yet another presidential committee, this time to examine the structure, organization, and ‘problems of communication’ in the Faculty of Arts.’ Inevitably,’ he wrote the secretary of

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council, ‘when the appointment of such a Committee is announced, there is some resistance, the feeling apparently being that it represents ... an investigation, if not a threat to the established procedures in the University.’ Chair of the committee was Robert MacIntosh of the board. Its members were T.K. Olson of Glendon, George Edwards of administrative studies, and Bob Lundell of science, with John Becker as secretary. The minutes of five meetings exist, at one of which I outlined my views of the role of the dean. But there was never a report ... MacIntosh wrote me that ‘since I have galloping amnesia, I don’t even remember the committee.’ Olson recalls meetings at MacIntosh’s home but has ‘no recollection of the substance of a report.’ Lundell and Edwards are dead. John Becker recalls that, with Murray on his way out and as there seemed to be no problems, they lost interest and stopped their investigation. In the spring of 1970, before Murray was out and a new president in, I requested sabbatical for 1971–72, whether as an interruption in the deanship or its end, I forget – probably the latter. Murray supported my request for sabbatical at full salary. However, the ‘Board noted that this would constitute a departure from established policy, and approved instead that Dean Saywell’s sabbatical be at half salary, but that in view of his service to York, the University undertake to guarantee Dean Saywell his full salary for 1971–72. The sum would consist of the sabbatical at half salary, whatever research grant Dean Saywell might receive, and a University grant of the balance.’ Soon after he arrived in the summer of 1970, David Slater, the new president, apprehensively asked me if I would remain as dean. I said I had no bitterness over the outcome of the presidential search and would be happy to work with him but that I had the upcoming sabbatical. Six months later, in February 1971, he wrote to the faculty that I have had many discussions with Dean Saywell about the work and the leadership of the Faculty of Arts. I have also had the benefit of discussions of these matters with many members of the Faculty. In my judgment it is in the interests of the University and the Faculty that Dean Saywell not go on leave next year but continue in the active leadership of the Faculty. Dean Saywell has indicated his willingness. I have recommended this course to the Board, and the postponement of Dean Saywell’s leave; and my recommendations have been accepted. For many reasons I am delighted that Dean Saywell would continue as Dean. I would like to take this occasion to express my sense of gratitude to Dean

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Saywell for the sustained, imaginative, creative job which he has done for the University. No on has contributed more to the intellectual development of this University.

Although I agreed to the postponed sabbatical, I told the president that I intended to step down in 1973, my tenth year, and suggested that the search for my successor should begin early to ensure an orderly transition. In the fall of 1972 a committee recommended Sydney Eisen as my successor. Faculty Salaries From the beginning I believed it was essential for the dean to have a voice in the determination not only of faculty salaries but also of the way the total salary package was broken down. There had to be a delicate balance, and I thought that the deans were in the best position to determine how that balance should be achieved. Salary scales were determined largely by rank, and freedom to negotiate within or around them was important in maintaining York’s competitive position, if not comparative advantage. Distribution within the annual increase to recognize merit, cost-of-living increases, across-the-board increases deemed to be for normal progress through the ranks were all critically important to attract, retain, and reward first-class scholars. But it was also essential to devote an adequate amount of our total faculty salary account for new faculty as we raced towards our 1970 target of 7,000 undergraduates and tried to create a distinguished graduate faculty. In the early years enough money was available to avoid having to make really hard choices among priorities. But by the early 1970s hard decisions had to be made. There were many possible trade-offs and inevitably there were differences of opinion among deans, faculty negotiators, the administration, and the board. Given a fixed salary package, for example, an increase in the faculty–student ratio (FSR) would release funds for salary increases and enhanced recruiting. Or as Peter Scott, the board chair, stated during the tough bargaining in the spring of 1969, if the FSR were increased from 1:12.6 to 1:13.6, appreciable savings would result, which would help balance the budget. William Davis, the minister of university affairs, in a speech at York in 1966 pointedly observed that if the Ontario FSR average of 1:14 were increased to the 1:16 or 1:17, as in the California and Michigan systems, Ontario would need 1,000 fewer faculty at a saving of $10 million.

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The faculty association could be depended upon to argue that salary floors should be comparable to those of our major competitors and that all faculty should be rewarded by automatic increases across the board, euphemistically called ‘progress through the ranks’ (PTR). In my presentations to the board and in discussions with the president, I argued that while some increase across the board, perhaps tied to the cost of living, was appropriate, automatic increases for all was not because not everyone was progressing through the ranks at the same speed – or progressing at all. What was needed, I insisted throughout my deanship, was a substantial portion of the total salary increase for discretionary merit. Following my presentations to the board in 1964 and again in December 1965, the board resolved that the salary committee ‘be made aware that the Board did not favour automatic salary increases for the faculty but the increases warranted by merit should be sufficient to retain and attract faculty of high standards.’ The basis of salary policy for 1966–67 was to establish scales and ranges sufficiently high to attract faculty of high standing; that scales be comparable to those at the University of Toronto; and that any increase for an individual faculty member be made on merit rather than as part of automatic increases across the board. It was estimated that $182,000 would be needed to bring York salaries up to Toronto’s, or an average increase of 13 per cent in the faculty payroll. In every salary settlement from 1966 to 1972–73, a designated percentage of the overall increase was designated for merit. For example, for 1967–68, the increase was 15 per cent: 5 per cent cost of living, 5 per cent for PTR, and 5 per cent for the deans’ discretionary merit increases. For 1968–69 the floor was raised from $15,000 to $15,600 for full professors (with floor increases for all other ranks), and the overall increase of 9 per cent was divided between 4 per cent for cost of living and 5 per cent for merit. One of the many problems we faced in recruiting was the fact that we were hiring generally at market prices while offering key individuals salaries above market prices for the developing graduate programs. As a result a salary disparity often existed between new and continuing faculty – although in many instances the new appointees were demonstrably superior. In January 1969 the faculty association (YUFA) requested a policy of parity between new and continuing faculty as well as a proportionate increase for all ranks. The board’s benefits committee agreed ‘that while the principle was sound and is the policy of the University, the University must be free to pay the salary necessary to obtain a needed and exceptionally qualified person

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in special circumstances and that such exceptional measures should not necessitate proportional increases for all existing staff.’ YUFA took a hard line in February and March 1969, demanding an increase of 18 per cent or threatening the first faculty strike in Canada. At a meeting of the deans in June 1969, we observed that with a salary increase of that order but with an expected increase in the value of the basic income unit (BIU) of only 5 per cent, we would hard pressed to hire the new faculty we needed. The association drew back when the board offered at least 10 per cent, and more if the provincial allocation permitted. The final package for 1969–70 appears to have been 4 per cent across the board or in the floors, and 6 per cent for merit for salaries under $20,000 and 3 per cent for those over $20,000, or roughly 10 per cent. That issue resolved, YUFA demanded 20 per cent for 1970–71: 6 per cent cost of living, 3 per cent PTR, 2 per cent for merit and anomalies, and 7 per cent across the board to close the gap with other professions. The deans and the president met with the board salary committee. We argued that York was falling behind the major Ontario universities and anything less than a package of 10 per cent would cause us difficulties with the faculty and in recruiting. Finally in April 1970 President Ross informed YUFA that the board had agreed to an increase of 14 per cent, of which 5 per cent was for cost of living and 9 merit, and that he would recommend to the deans that 2 of the 9 per cent be regarded as normal progress through ranks. After David Slater became president in the summer of 1970, there was much more collective salary discussion before he went to the board with his recommendations in February 1971. After extensive discussions with the deans – particularly with me – and with YUFA, a general agreement was reached that a major thrust of salary policy had to be an improvement in the FSR, which in our case had declined dramatically between 1969 and 1971 – in other words, agreement that faculty recruitment was a top priority in allocating the total wage package for 1971–72. In the end the board accepted an increase in the floor and across the board of 3 per cent, a faculty improvement fund of 3 per cent intended to recognize normal PTR (although there could be some exceptions), and a 3 per cent merit fund for recognition of superior performance. However, in approving the increase, the board did so ‘on the understanding that such approval holds only so long as the revenue assumptions continue to hold.’ Before the 1972–73 settlement Slater again had long discussions with the deans but also with the YUFA negotiating committee, a collegial

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group all from the faculty of arts and very different from the adversarial union leadership that was soon to emerge. As Slater wrote in his recommendations to the board in March 1972, the data suggested that York was somewhat behind the salary levels for good faculty in the leading universities in Ontario. I, therefore, strongly support making a step toward closing the gap between the salary levels at York and the higher levels of the average at Western, Waterloo, Queen’s and Toronto. Because of our budgetary constraints [which would be much worse than we expected in the spring] the step can only be a modest one this year, but it will entail a higher increase in average salaries at York than the average of Ontario universities and the averages of the four leaders. I have been concerned that the salary increase shall be distributed in a way that recognizes and rewards excellence as well as meeting legitimate claims of all faculty for reimbursement of past rises in the cost of living and for general increased worth to the University.

The president recommended a 3 1/2 per cent increase for all fulltime faculty; a flat $160 for each faculty member in recognition of normal professional development; and a merit pool of 3 per cent ‘to be distributed at the discretion and responsibility of the Deans, with advice of the Chairman.’ The merit pool could also be used to remove anomalies. All merit proposals were to be accompanied by ‘brief, explicit rationales ... and final agreement must be made with the concurrence of the Dean.’ More important, ‘it is the intention of this [the merit] provision – an intention fully supported by the Faculty Association’s negotiating team – that the funds in the merit pool shall not be applied evenly among the members of the various academic units. Thus, the merit increase in an individual case can range from zero to an amount well above 3%.’ For the first time we had in writing an authoritative endorsement of the policy I had always followed. While the board accepted the recommendations, Robert MacIntosh, the chair, wrote Slater that the board was ‘conscious of the great risks and uncertainties in University enrolment and financial prospects at this time. For this reason the Board is very reluctant to take on large expanding, continuing commitments.’ The board also stated that a fall in revenue would affect the 1973–74 settlement. In 1973, despite the prospects of declining income and deficits unacceptable to the board, YUFA categorically rejected a wage freeze and asked for a 5 per cent cost-of-living increase and 2 per cent for progress

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through the ranks. During a heated debate in the president’s council in February 1973 about faculty budget allocations, I stated that, assuming there could be only a million-dollar deficit, the real issue was faculty salaries. If there were a 4 per cent increase, I estimated that in arts we would have to dismiss $500,000 worth of faculty. In the end the board provided an increase of 4.5 per cent across the board for those making less than $20,000 and $900 for those making more than $20,000. Although many part-time faculty on contract could not be renewed, I was spared having to deal with the inevitable pain because I turned the office over to Dean Eisen in the spring. As of 1 June 1973 the faculty had suffered a net loss of twenty-seven. During the 1972–73 negotiations, the president had agreed with YUFA that it would be desirable to have a comprehensive review of salary policy. At the same time, in April 1972, a senate committee was recommending that the university should consider adopting and publishing an official salary scale, guidelines for the granting of annual increases, and the extent to which the results of salary decisions should be made known – that is, the proportion of faculty receiving no increments, those receiving normal merit increments, and those receiving above-normal increments. Unionization was just around the corner. So too, it appears, was the practice of having deans sit on the administration’s negotiating team as adversaries of YUFA. The Decanal Office The dean’s office in 1963–64 consisted of one secretary, who was also secretary of faculty council. I had realized almost at once that I not only lacked the taste and talent for detailed administrative work, but that my time and energy could be better invested in recruiting faculty and developing policy in the faculty and the university. What I needed was an experienced academic administrator as my associate who would actually run the machinery of the faculty. The ideal was Willard Piepenburg, a friend and colleague at the University of Toronto. A graduate of Wisconsin and Cambridge, Willard had really administered the Toronto History Department as undergraduate secretary. He was not very happy or comfortable at Toronto, and readily agreed to join me at York. He ran faculty council and its committees with a firm hand and served in a great variety of other administrative positions during and after his six years as associate dean. Initially, he worked closely with Vicky Draper, the assistant registrar,

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who handled much of the work from admissions to graduation that was the responsibility of the registrar’s office. By 1965 Willard, Vicky, and I had concluded that there was far too much overlap and ambiguity in the relations between the faculty administration and the not superbly efficient registrar’s office. What was needed was a rational decentralization of functions, with appropriate budgetary changes. As vice-president, Pat Pattullo had been working on a rational allocation of functions among the registrar, the faculties, the dean of students, and the college masters. With his departure in the summer of 1965, everything was left in limbo. When, in the senior policy committee in December 1965, I emphasized the need for some measure of decentralization, I met with little resistance from the registrar. By the spring of 1966 we had engineered a major redistribution of functions from admissions, registration, firstyear and upper-class advising, examinations, and academic surveillance of progress, all of which were directly or indirectly managed by our office, leaving the registrar in charge of records and statistics. Vicky Draper moved to our office as head of the office of student programs, where she remained until 1979 when she became the senior executive officer in the faculty. Willard left our office in 1971 to take over the troubled graduate program in history and was awarded a university professorship upon his retirement in 1987. As the faculty, the support staff, and the budget grew, I decided that I must forsake my natural Luddite bias and explore the wonders of computers. It seemed to me that much of our paper and records could be computerized, particularly our budget, so that we could keep up to date on all accounts (in part to make sure we spent it all before year end!). No one in our office knew anything about computers. Fortunately we found Sheldon Levy, a graduate student in computer science. ‘The story is that the dean of the faculty of arts was looking for someone to help put his budget on this newfangled apparatus called a computer,’ Levy recalled when asked how he got into administration. ‘I was interested in technology, so I had a bit of skill to offer. Or maybe I just didn’t know enough to be reluctant to try. The rest is history.’ The Faculty of Arts was the first to ‘computerize’ within the university, but Levy was soon stolen to work full-time for the vice-president administration on a university-wide system. Later he became a vice-president at York and Toronto, and is now president of Ryerson University. The departments faced similar staffing problems as their workloads grew. Despite our increasing support staff, absolutely no secretarial

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time was available for anything but departmental business. However, to encourage research – in the days before word processors – we established a ‘secretarial pool’ completely devoted to the production of articles, books, and reports done by the faculty. As the work was occasional, if not cyclical, we employed several full-time and many part-time typists. We had a phone-in system in order that material could be submitted or revised on short notice. It worked. As Gabriel Kolko, an enormously productive historian, told me, the existence of the pool alone was reason enough for coming to York. But, as with computerization, the central administration quickly saw the benefits and decided that it should not be the prize of one faculty, although we paid for it. Some time after I left the dean’s office, the pool was centralized and ultimately scrapped. Faculty Council and Its Committees The faculty council, under the authority of the senate, was the governing legislative body for the faculty. The two key committees of council were the committee on undergraduate studies (CUS), which dealt with curriculum, and CEAS, which monitored examinations and academic standards. These were supplemented by a variety of permanent and ad hoc committees. I hated committee work and exercised my right to attend or chair CUS or CEAS only when critical issues were at stake. Conscientious committees usually functioned efficiently, but arguments about the purpose of evaluation frequently disrupted meetings of CEAS. The statutory rules of the faculty council stated that the dean was to be the chair. After watching council in operation for a year under Rollo Earl, I decided that I wanted to be on the floor and not in the chair, an advocate not a gavel banger. At the first council in the fall of 1964, I moved and council passed a motion that the rule be suspended and council elect a chair. The elected chairs were respected member of council and included a student who was elected chair in 1972. In the early years council was a relatively intimate gathering of people who knew each other and shared a collective interest in, if not always agreement about, the development of the faculty. As the faculty grew, council became superfluous to all but a diminishing minority of the faculty. Faculty were either apathetic or indifferent or found departmental issues or their research to be the locus of their concerns or self-interest. By the early 1970s less than a third of faculty usually

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attended council, and meetings were often not held or were adjourned early because they lacked the required quorum of fifty. In 1972 council created an ad hoc committee on the structure and operations of council. A year later council approved recommendations that it meet only three times year, or as requested by the dean or twenty members, and that it deal only with major issues of policy. The committee also recommended the consolidation of the committee structure into eight committees, including an executive committee, and that members be elected. Administrative officers of the faculty were excluded. However, recognizing ‘the necessity of maintaining a close working relationship between the Dean and any advisory committees of the Dean on the one hand, and the Council and the elected committee structure on the other,’ the recommendations provided that the dean could chair the executive committee and the committee on academic policy and planning, as well as joint meetings between the dean’s advisory committees and the elected council committees. The executive committee was to review the new structure within a year and recommend any change that experience justified. Today council meets when required, although there is usually one meeting each term. All faculty remain as members of council but such is the lack of interest in its work that only the nomination of two members from each department assures a quorum of thirty-five. As with the dean, council has become less significant as power has become increasingly concentrated above, below, and outside. Senate Then composed of all senior faculty members and a few senior administrators, the senate is – or should be – the supreme academic governing body in the university. During my tenure, senate almost routinely approved the legislation of the faculty, but later on senate committees or presidential task forces scrutinized the work and standards in the faculties more closely. I believed that my membership in the key senate committees, particularly the senate executive committee and the board–senate liaison committee, was essential. From 1963 to 1972 I was continually on those two committees and usually on the senate academic and policy planning committee (APPC). In our negotiations with the ministry over the establishment of the Faculty of Education, for example, motions and resolutions of the senate kept the heat on the government and prevented the president and chair of the board from caving in.

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Chairs Because faculty council was a legislative rather than a planning and policy body, I preferred to work with an ad hoc committee of the chairs and other unit heads. Although I knew the faculty was more than the sum of all its departments and divisions, I found meetings of the chairs a more appropriate and workable forum than council for the discussion of policy and the flow of information. Initially my goal in recruiting chairs was to find people who would mirror the work of every academic in research and teaching and also possess the personal skills to manage, build consensus, and hold thoughtful and persuasive convictions about the development of their departments. In York’s early days the chair had to be a zealous and persuasive recruiter as well. It was a complicated calculus and few combined all the desirable talents – indeed, in some of my worst appointments, they had none. The position of chair changed rapidly and dramatically. Increasingly chairs were recommended by the department, although occasionally I intervened to prevent an unsuitable appointment or to recruit someone from outside. By the end of my tenure as dean, the appointment of the chair often caused deep ideological or methodological divisions within departments. As a result, chairs were often those who offended least, who were not involved in research and planned to base their career on service, or who were most willing to do the chores. Soon after I officially became dean, I established the practice of meetings with the chairs, program directors, and the senior people from our office. The meetings were held at least twice a year and when occasion demanded. We discussed where we were and where we wanted to go, as well as more immediate issues. The late spring meeting was always held off campus, where, after a hard day’s work, members of the committee, their partners, guests, and invited senior York administrators could end the evening with good food, good wine, and good conversation. After one meeting and dinner at the Lord Simcoe hotel, President Slater asked ‘Is this how the Faculty of Arts lives all the time?’ In the spring of 1966 – for which a record exists – we discussed the provision of married students’ housing, the effect of incomplete and delayed buildings, the separation of Glendon and York, the reorganization of the faculty administration, concern about the quality of teaching, and the position of chairs. To elaborate the last issue, we appointed a subcommittee on the office of the chair. The committee

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later recommended stipends for the chair; a departmental administrative assistant and research assistance; a small discretionary fund for entertainment, travel, and additional secretarial assistance when needed; and a sabbatical at full salary at the end of a normal five-year term. I prepared a recommendation supporting the proposals and discussed the importance of the matter with the president. The following spring I had to report to the chairs that Ross and the board had not approved any of the recommendations except a small administrative stipend and agreement in principle but without funding to the addition of an administrative assistant. The chairs found the response to the sabbatical proposal particularly objectionable. As it then stood, after five years a chair would not be entitled even to an automatic sabbatical at half-salary but could put in two three-year terms or go back to the department for a year or two and then be ‘high on the list’ for a regular sabbatical. I sent a long and strongly-worded memo to Ross and demanded that the issue be on the agenda for the next meeting of his senior policy committee. Without making an issue of the presidential–board decision, I tired to arrange sabbaticals at the normal rate after a five-year term and was able to sweeten life with special secretarial assistance, a hospitality fund, and travel and research grants. I met with each chair regularly and frequently – if necessary, daily. Major annual discussion centred on budget and recruiting, but there were frequent meetings about salary increases and troublesome colleagues. Chairs would routinely outline the importance of curricular expansion, the need for new specialists, and the recruitment of productive scholars to enhance the reputation of the graduate program. Although the faculty of graduate studies had a dean, the provision of faculty for its programs rested completely with the undergraduate chairs, graduate directors, and undergraduate dean. When I returned to service in 1987 as chair of the history graduate program, my relationship was entirely with the departmental chair except for the budget for research assistantships. Library and Archives The development of a first-class library was more essential for arts than for any other faculty. Law had its own library, as did Glendon. Scientists were concerned with the latest journals. Administrative studies relied on public documents and journals. But research and

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teaching in our faculty needed not only the latest books and journals but the best of the past. The director of libraries, Thomas O’Connell, had come from a minor position at Widener Library at Harvard in 1963. He was competent but neither experienced nor imaginative. He was grateful for my argument in budget discussions that although cutting books might be less painful than cutting staff or sewers, in the long run it was fatal. But he stubbornly refused in practice, if not in principle, to accept my view that library acquisitions should follow the direction the faculty was taking. I was not consulted, for example, when he purchased the Starr bookstore in Boston for something like $30,000 in 1968. Not long after be bought the Starr and exhausted his acquisition and cataloguing budget, I learned from Ramsay Cook that the Ducharme bookstore in Montreal was for sale. I knew the bookstore well. Ducharme had unquestionably the best holdings of Quebec and French-Canadian materials in the world. Murray Ross was away, so I called Tom O’Connell, who was then on vacation in Boston. As I remember the conversation, he explained that he had just blown his acquisitions budget on Starr and understandably seemed reluctant to agree to the Ducharme purchase. Because the store was already on the market, I called board member Bert Gerstein, whom I knew would be supportive, to see if there was a way we could guarantee the required $70,000 until Ross got back. At the same time I sent Grace Heggie, the history bibliographer, and Hartwell Bowsfield, soon to be the university archivist, to examine the collection. Their report supported the view of those of us who frequented the store that Ducharme would be an invaluable acquisition in an area that I hoped to develop. In the meantime, O’Connell somehow found the $70,000. When finally catalogued, the Ducharme acquisition numbered more than 2,000 monographs, 284 series titles, and 6,000 pamphlets. Consequently, York had the richest collection of Quebec materials outside of Quebec. In addition, we donated thousands of duplicates to the National Library and other Canadian universities. Although O’Connell was not at all interested in the establishment of a university archives, I was convinced that it was essential to acquire and maintain institutional records and faculty materials as well as to acquire manuscripts from outside. In the late 1960s I had a suitable candidate for the position of archivist and was determined to force the issue. Hartwell Bowsfield, whom I had met in 1953 when I was doing research in the Provincial Archives of Manitoba, was their thirty-year-

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old archivist. A specialist in Manitoba history, Bowsfield left the archives in 1967 to complete a PhD at the University of Toronto. To overcome O’Connell’s reluctance, if not opposition to the establishment of an archive, I offered to appoint Bowsfield to a part-time lecturer’s position in the History Department with one course and to pay half his salary. He joined in 1970 and remained as archivist until 1988, but the archives, lacking adequate library support, languished. They blossomed in the 1990s under the direction of Kent Haworth. But only in 2005, after years of archival pressure, did the central administration require that all university records be sent to the archives, an edict that, it appears, is neither known, enforced, nor obeyed. (One result of this failure was the destruction of almost all of the records of my ten years in the dean’s office!) Modernism and Miscellany In recruiting faculty I cannot claim to have endorsed affirmative action, but, as far as possible, I did not allow gender, sexual orientation, or ethnicity to enter into any deliberations of departmental hiring committees. I did, however, discourage thoughtless discrimination in forms of address. Too often, female members of faculty were addressed as Miss or Mrs rather than by the rank they held. In March 1965 I wrote to the secretary of council, for the attention of council, that while there were no formal rules of address whether of rank, degrees, sex, or marital status, we should be consistent and that whatever terms we used should make no ‘distinction between the sexes.’ At the University of Toronto I do not remember any formal recognition of Jewish religious holidays, which was perhaps not surprising as there were few Jewish faculty. Nor were there many at York in 1963. However, by the middle 1960s Jewish students were a significant minority – probably the largest minority – and there were an increasing number of Jews on faculty. The faculty did attempt to make some informal allowances for the students and faculty who observed Jewish holidays, and we discussed some more formal regulations, but it was not until 1970 that a delegation of Jewish faculty asked me to cancel classes on Jewish holidays. I replied that it seemed reasonable and asked which holiday was to be respected. It was relatively easy to make suitable arrangements in the faculty, and in November 1971 council approved the suspension of classes on Rosh Hashanah (two days) and Yom Kippur and determined that no examinations would be

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held on the Jewish holidays connected with Passover. The senate followed suit in December. Today some form of recognition is given to all religious and quasi-religious groups. Perhaps the most popular of all my decisions, for both students and faculty, was the decision in the fall of 1964 to have a reading week in February. Its purpose was to provide a change of pace and give students and faculty the time to pursue regular academic work without the interruptions of lectures and weekly assignments. For some, it served its purpose. For others on both sides of the lectern, as locked office doors and a near-empty library suggested, it was a week for sunning or skiing. It seems that it still is. My role as dean was an intensely personal one. It was perhaps a mistake – or at least a shortcoming on my part – that we generated few planning papers and no statements of short-, intermediate, or longterm objectives. Our plans were developed in the meetings of chairs, in consultations with the departments and divisions, in discussions with the presidents to explain our policy aspirations and defend our budget necessities. It was not an administrative style that appealed to everyone, but it was the only style I knew. And over the course of ten years in the office of the dean I could only hope that when I retired many in the faculty might have agreed with Mac Westcott, chair of psychology, who wrote a letter I treasure: As you sink slowly in the West I want you to know how personally grateful I am that your have been Dean during these years that I have been Chairman. I have appreciated your fairness, honesty, and judgment; I have appreciated the fact that you could be gentle or hard-boiled – almost always in the right proportion and at the right times; I have appreciated that fact that you could ride with a loose ship or a tight one; I have appreciated the fact that my propensity for believing what people tell me was steadily reinforced in my dealing with you. While the entire University is indebted to you for your service as Dean, I want to personally add my thanks.

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13 The Party Is Over, 1972

The years from 1963 to 1970 had been expansive ones for York and the university system. Undergraduate enrolment in Ontario had more than tripled from 29,500 in 1960 to 106,000 in 1970. The number of graduate students had more than quintupled from 2,600 to 14,800. Nine new universities were established and the six older ones expanded rapidly. None grew more rapidly than York. Although funding never seemed to be adequate for all our plans, it was always sufficient to enable us to recruit new faculty and to provide reasonable, and at times generous, salary increases. Staff support services in the faculty of arts were higher than the provincial average, and we had a generous minor research and conference travel budget. The 1960s was marked by an unprecedented belief in the economic benefits of higher education, and the policy of the government, as stated by the provincial treasurer in 1959, was ‘to ensure that no student who has the capacity will be deprived of the opportunity of attending university.’ Such an open admissions policy and relatively inexpensive tuition were seen as a way to broaden the opportunities of the many and to end the virtual monopoly of the few on entrance into the corporate and professional worlds. But by the end of the 1960s, the party was over. Some economists argued – even demonstrated – that the economic benefits of a university education were questionable. Many parents or their children apparently agreed. Student radicalism helped to shatter the old faith in higher education. Governments and the public wrestled with the economic and financial consequences of high unemployment and serious inflation. William Davis, the minister of colleges and universities, warned in 1969 that the good times were coming to an end: ‘There is

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the feeling that we have reached the end of the line; that we cannot afford to increase to any significant degree the amounts being directed towards universities in future years.’ The flow of students had always attracted money under the system of formula financing, and student enrolment was projected to continue to increase. But in the early 1970s the pattern of enrolment changed dramatically and unexpectedly. Secondary school graduates chose not to attend university; some who were already enrolled chose not to return. During my interview for the presidency in 1969, I had said that one of the major issues facing the university would be whether we could manage a recession without endangering the quality of education. That problem was much more immediate and serious than I had thought. At York the party ended sadly in a messy and largely unnecessary administrative, political, and personal crisis. David Slater had the misfortune to become president of York just as the good times were coming to an end. A native of Manitoba, he had a BCom from Manitoba, a BA and MA from Queen’s, and a PhD in economics at Chicago. He joined the Department of Economics at Queen’s and by 1970 was dean of graduate studies, a position concerned largely with quality control in a stable and well-run institution. He realized that his administrative experience was limited but thought that he could be a solid and conscientious manager, if not an inspirational leader, of an academic enterprise. During his interview for the position of president, he had been assured by Murray Ross and Pete Scott that York was financially sound, a statement he did not question or examine but that was clearly inaccurate. For some years the board had relied on the endowment fund to meet projected deficits, which by 1970 had reached $750,000. The board had determined to balance the budget in 1970–71 and to eliminate the accumulated deficit over the next two or three years. I had met Slater on several occasions prior to his appointment and had asked him to consider joining us or even taking the chair of the Economics Department. Soon after his arrival, he came across the hall to my office to talk about York and to ask if I would stay on as dean. I told him that, despite the nature and outcome of the presidential campaign, I was neither bitter nor envious and would gladly remain for a year or two, although I had been granted a sabbatical for 1971–72. David Slater was a man of great personal and professional integrity. He believed that we all shared his view of collegiality and his com-

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mitment to the interests of the university as a whole, as, of course, we did – in theory at least. Ross had run the president’s office with a light hand on the reins and with little overall management structure or process. Slater was determined to create order out of what must have seemed to him chaos. He sought neither power nor prestige for the office or himself. His goal was to create an administrative structure and a process of decision making that was collegial and enlightened. Before long he had created a president’s senior policy committee (PSPC), a senior administrative advisory committee, the president’s budget advisory committee, and the president’s council (PC). At every meeting the president arrived with a long memo of issues and objectives, and he encouraged open and frank discussion. At times there was just too much paper, too much talk, and too little accomplished. Slater arrived to nothing but doom and gloom from our paymasters at Queen’s Park. In January 1971 I warned the chairs that we were approaching rough seas, as the government seemed determine to cut back support for the universities. My pessimism was confirmed on 9 March 1971, when John White, the minister of the reorganized Ministry of Colleges and Universities, insisted on ‘more scholar for the dollar,’ He warned of spending increases much less than the universities had requested – and even less than we had realistically expected – as well as cutbacks in support for graduate students. On 27 April he trimmed $12 million from the system’s operating grants and $7 million from capital grants. The increase in value of the basic income unit (which tied enrolment to income) was 2 per cent less than the amount needed to cover projected increases in enrolment and the rate of inflation. The cutting was to continue in the 1972 provincial budget. Declaring that it was ‘inequitable for taxpayers to bear all the cost increases in post-secondary education,’ the Treasury Board recommended increases in tuition for all students. In November the government called a halt to all new university construction. Money could no longer fuel the barbecue. Nor could more students and their BIUs. In Towards 2000, written in 1970, the Committee of University Presidents had warned that by 1975, ‘if participation rates followed recent trends (i.e. the open-door policy is continued),’ there would be an additional 30,000 undergraduates, half of them in arts and science. The executive director warned the ministry: ‘I do not wish to be alarmist but unless something is done quickly I can see the very real prospect next fall [1971] in which some thousands of applicants cannot find a place.’ On 3 February 1971 David Slater informed his senior policy

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committee that between 2,500 and 3,000 first-year students had not been allowed for in university projections, partly because of new degree requirements for teachers. Because about half of the demand was in Metro Toronto, York would feel the pressure, particularly with the launch of its new Faculty of Education. Our budgeting for 1971–72 had been based on the optimistic view that our overall enrolment would increase. I discussed our priorities with the chairs and the president. He had lengthy discussions about salaries with the faculty negotiating team. There seemed to be general agreement, even among the Faculty Association, that the first charge on our budget, within reason, should be an increase in the number faculty and an improvement in the faculty–student ratio, which had declined in comparison with those of the better universities in the system. The chairs collegially agreed that the units with the highest ratios should be our top priority. With a total budget of almost $10 million, we were able to hire ninety new and replacement faculty for the 1971–72 session. The additions enabled us to increase resources in the developing senior year programs, in graduate work, in the divisions, and in new programs such as physical education. The faculty– student ratio fell from 18:5 to 16:7 – lower if part-time instructors and graduate student teaching assistants were included. We were also able to provide a handsome salary increase of about 9 per cent. The ministry had projected a 9 per cent increase in enrolment for the 1971–72 academic year. Our budgeting for that year had been based on a projected increase of almost 16 per cent in enrolment and a 20 per cent increase in BIU income. However in the fall the actual provincial increase in students was only 5 per cent. While York had an increase in enrolment of 14 per cent, that was almost 2 per cent less than our budget projections. In arts we met our first-year target, registering 2,100 students despite the fact that lower admission requirements at the University of Toronto had drained students from York and other institutions. Given our location in metro Toronto, we were particularly vulnerable and were forced to drop our standards to selectively admit students who had an average below 62 per cent. Even more important was a significant dropout among first- and second-year students; at the same time, an unexpected increase in the number of students opting for a three-year degree was higher than usual. More than 600 students did not return, although 60 per cent of them had preregistered. York was not alone. Across Ontario, 13,000 projected first-year students did not register and 8,400 had dropped out. A provincial study

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found that more than half of those who did not attend cited financial reasons or a limited job market. About 40 per cent of the dropouts said they had no intention of returning – ever. Forty per cent of them were ‘turned-off’ by their experience and lacked the motivation to continue; some admitted they had no idea why they had come to university in the first place. The recommendations in the study ranged from increasing discipline and higher standards to making courses easier courses, less emphasis on exams, more practical courses, and job guarantees. And, of course, there were demands for better instructors and more student involvement and control. In the case of York, our isolation on the northern fringe of the city was another very important negative factor. As the number of applications declined in the spring, we revised our projections downwards. In July 1972 we lowered them again and set aside an $800,000 contingency fund in case enrolments fell even further. The president informed the board in September that, although the data were incomplete, we should meet our July estimates. But the October figures brought the bad news. We were short about 1,000 BIUs or $1.7 million, the short fall largely attributable to dropouts and a decline in the number of graduate students as a result of decreasing government support. When the cutting began, I was able to find $200,000. Most of the uncommitted money across the university was frozen. By the fall of 1971 we had begun discussions about the 1972–73 budget. In many ways we were working in the dark: no projections could be assumed to be accurate; the BIU increase was probably going to be no more than 2 per cent (which it was); and with the probability of an increase in both tuition and the loan portion of the student aid program, there would be fewer entering students and more dropouts. As Slater demonstrated in a lengthy memo on 8 November 1971, there was no way we could avoid real pressure on resources, a worsening of the staff–student ratio, likely disputes over salary increases, and higher costs for sabbatical leaves in the older faculties like arts. In December the board approved some preliminary budget figures for 1972–73, with money largely for new faculty and sabbatical replacements. Arts was allocated $500,000 for fifteen new positions ($225,000) and sabbatical replacements, which meant a budget of roughly $10 million. In my detailed budget of 16 February 1972, I requested an additional $633,000 for more sabbatical replacements,

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teaching assistants, and additional faculty for new undergraduate and graduate programs and several key senior appointments. I made the request while admitting in my submission that the office of student programs had told me that 9.2 per cent of third-year students had opted to take their degrees rather than going on to a fourth year, compared with 6.3 per cent the previous year. At the same time rumours circulated – confirmed in March – that first-year enrolment would decline province-wide by 5.7 per cent. On 13 March 1972 the overall financial situation looked even bleaker when, after thirty hours of negotiations, the York University Faculty Association agreed to a salary settlement of over 6 per cent. The board was reluctant to approve it, but the president persuaded them that the settlement was not only just but necessary. However, the chairman of the board, Robert MacIntosh, wrote Slater on 28 March that the ‘Board has to be particularly careful to avoid deficits for the University in this and the next few years. The Board is conscious of the great risks and uncertainties in university enrolment and financial prospects at this time. For this reason the Board is very reluctant to take on large and continuing commitments.’ Nonetheless, they accepted his recommendation ‘on the understanding that you will make every effort to avoid deficits and with the understanding that if the 1972–73 salary increases turn out to be an excessive burden, this will have to be taken into account in subsequent years.’ Just how this would be taken into account was unclear. On 15 March 1972 I presented a pessimistic view of the financial situation to the chairs. I warned that more cuts were likely as numbers were down. The remedies we discussed included my suggestion that we might ‘quietly’ admit some good Grade 12 graduates, open up a special student category, admit some transfers from the Atkinson evening program to a part-time day program, and be more flexible in admitting transfer students from other institutions. But I knew such measures would serve only as band-aids. In the PSPC on 22 March the mood was sombre and relations strained. When it was suggested that arts was the culprit in the short fall, I exploded: ‘With the income it generates from both undergraduate and graduate students it supports every other Faculty in one way or another ... When the income generated is compared to the amounts allocated and when the number of students to be taught is considered the picture is shown to be false.’ Despite this fact, I reminded the committee that I had not complained as vociferously as many other deans

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about the budget strains in the faculty. Figures told the story: in 1971–72 arts received 56.8 per cent of our earned BIU income; only Atkinson was lower, while administrative studies received 91 per cent, Osgoode over 75 per cent, and Glendon 74 per cent. Put another way, arts generated almost 30 per cent of York’s operating budget, and the ‘surplus’ of $4.4 million earned by arts could be said to have paid for most of the total academic support budget. David Slater agreed that there was ‘a good deal of truth’ in my comments. ‘The Faculty of Arts,’ he admitted, ‘is under extremely severe budget restraints ... and will have one of the first claims on contingency funds if enrolment targets are met.’ Following long meetings of the deans with the president and Bruce Parkes, vice-president finance, the preliminary budget was released on 29 March. Of the $11 million I had requested, I received $10,880,000 – an increase of $800,000 or 7.9 per cent – much of which had to go for increased salaries and sabbaticals. Meanwhile, before Christmas 1971 we had attempted to improve our enrolment prospects in arts with measures dubbed ‘Operation Break-Through.’ The strategy began in arts but was adopted in part by other faculties. It eventually resulted in more efficient and timely procedures in the registrar’s and central admissions offices and speeded up decisions about student housing and awards. Arts also hoped to boost enrolment by launching YES (York Enquiry Service), which established immediate contact between applicants for admission and a cadre of faculty advisers to ensure that each inquiry was answered the day it was received. We established direct contacts with superior applicants who had listed York as their first or second choice, and in April began a series of Sunday afternoon ‘advising colloquia,’ inviting applicants to visit the campus for discussions with faculty advisers. By the end of May 1972 it was evident that, despite our efforts, enrolment prospects looked bleak. In arts the projection of 2,300 first-year applicants and a total enrolment of 6,400 was no longer valid. An intake of 2,000 seemed more likely, and every indication was that the dropout rate would not diminish, partly because the faculty had attempted to counter grade inflation with tighter grading. We were not helped when the University of Toronto again dropped its admission requirements from 70 to 67, and Atkinson suffered when Toronto began more innovative part-time programs. At the board meeting on 19 June, Slater warned of a possible shortfall of about 600 BIUs or more than $1.2 million. Instead of granting the usual summer executive authority to the chairman and the pres-

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ident, the board insisted on being kept informed as the financial picture became clearer. By the summer of 1972 two key players had emerged in the tragedy about to unfold. For more than a year, it seemed evident that Harry Crowe had his own agenda. Crowe had been the darling of the academic freedom movement after the celebrated ‘Crowe’ case at United College in Winnipeg in 1959. After his departure from Winnipeg, he had moved to Ottawa, where he became involved in a variety of trade union and occasional journalistic activities. Crowe had an MA from Columbia and had been, according to Ramsay Cook and other students at United College, an excellent teacher. With his background he impressed me as a good prospect for Atkinson, and I encouraged Del Smyth, the dean, to hire him as chair of the History Department in 1966. Harry Crowe was an enigmatic, almost mysterious, figure who seemed to operate either at the centre or on a distant margin. As Albert Tucker, who knew him well, later commented: ‘He thrived on a crisis that would elicit his passion to be at the centre, where he could demonstrate as well as satisfy his penchant for a curious kind of power. While operating at a democratic level, his fundamental instinct was for command.’ Soon after his appointment as chair, Crowe set out to undermine Dean Smythe’s popularity. When Smythe’s term expired in 1968–69, Crowe had no difficulty in persuading the review committee not to renew his appointment. He had even less difficulty in persuading his colleagues on the search committee for a new dean that the associate dean was not up to the job – but that Harry Crowe was. Murray Ross had grave reservations about Crowe but in the end reluctantly appointed him. Crowe also desperately sought the presidency when Ross retired, even lobbying for the position from his hospital bed. Despite support from Atkinson, his candidacy failed to take off, and he placed last in the senate ballot. A poor loser – indeed, a vicious loser in both his private and public life – Crowe worked subtly to undermine Slater from the time he took office. Slater had only been a ‘paper Dean’ he once told me, and his friends – Crowe always had ‘friends’ in the know – had warned him that Slater was not up to the job at either Queen’s or York. Harry Crowe’s strategy was not to confront Slater directly but to oppose the exercise of his presidential powers. On many issues at the president’s council or senate, Crowe was the resolute champion of

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democracy, constitutionalism, due process, and the rule of law. Suddenly, in January 1972 Crowe announced his retirement from the deanship to return to teaching and research. The reasons were highly suspect, as he had done no academic research, and to no one’s surprise he withdrew his resignation two weeks later. He explained his change of mind to Excalibur (24 February) as being in response to widespread faculty and student demand. But the reporter gathered from what he had said that ‘Atkinson is afraid of getting somebody too cooperative with Slater and what he wants to do.’ At the same time Crowe had submitted a proposal to a senate committee that a board–senate– student committee take control of the annual budget from the president. By the summer of 1972, Crowe was an open opponent of Slater, and his behaviour was, as Slater’s executive assistant described it on one occasion, ‘obstructive as usual.’ Long before the financial crisis hit in the summer of 1972, he was continually phoning such influential faculty as Al Tucker, principal of Glendon, and John Warkentin, chair of geography, with long monologues on why Slater had to go. A second key player was Robert MacIntosh, who had been pressed to become chairman of the board on Peter Scott’s retirement in 1971, after other obvious candidates had turned down the position. Two years younger than Slater, he had earned his PhD in economics at McGill in 1952 and, after three years as an untenured assistant professor at Bishops College, had joined the Bank of Nova Scotia. David Slater, on the other hand, had become an assistant professor at Queen’s in 1952 and had completed his PhD only in 1957. Slater later told me he believed that MacIntosh was envious of his academic success. MacIntosh later said that he had known Slater through the Learned Societies and regretted that he had not checked with his sources when he was considered for the presidency. He also believed that Slater had stood in the way of his appointment as a director of the Bank of Canada. From the beginning MacIntosh seemed to have had an active, hands-on view of his role as chair. Soon after his appointment, he invited several of the deans to a meeting at his Moore Park home to discuss the issues facing the university. Slater had not been invited. Within a few months MacIntosh was pressing him to appoint a vicepresident academic and to stop chairing those ‘awful’ senate meetings. He followed the proceedings of senate closely and before long was questioning the downward shift in student entrance requirements. As the financial crisis broke in the fall of 1972, he asked the president to

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provide statistics for the board on faculty teaching loads and suggested that he consider cutting out units where ‘the demand for the discipline is very marginal.’ Robert MacIntosh was not a man to stand idly by as the financial crisis developed As the enrolment figures plunged, I warned the chairs on 2 October 1972 that further budget cuts were likely and sabbatical leaves more rigidly enforced. Sabbatical replacements were to be warned that the chances of continuing employment were bleak. Registration figures a week later revealed a shortfall of 2,347 BIUs, or $4.1 million. Thus, even after the contingency measures in the summer, the deficit would be $2.1 million. York had taken the worst beating of any major university in attracting Grade 13 students. Enrolment in the Faculty of Arts was the major factor, with a decline in the first-year intake and about 900 dropouts, for a total decrease of 1,000 students – 1,400 BIUs. Glendon (where the retention rate was only 57 per cent), Atkinson, and the Faculty of Science were also down. The result of low enrolments, Slater estimated in a 10 October memorandum, ‘will be a surplus of staff in relation to students of from 7% to 10%. This eventually would demand a reduction of between 100 and 150 teaching staff.’ During the discussion in the senior policy committee, he stated that ‘although there are many variables at work, a nottoo-pessimistic view of most of them would indicate that York would experience great difficulty in generating revenue for 1973–74 to allow retention of all regular faculty and staff.’ However, when Tucker and Walter Tarnopolsky, the new vice-president academic, suggested that faculty would have to be cut or salaries reduced, Slater insisted that faculty reductions could be only a ‘last resort.’ Tenured faculty could not be dismissed on financial grounds. If faculty were to be reduced, the cut would have to be made among the hundred or more contract faculty and graduate teaching assistants, perhaps the full-time equivalent of about 350 contractually limited faculty. Slater’s memorandum concluded that if a number of new initiatives were successful, if we attracted more students, if we limited costs, and if the BIU formula were satisfactory, we might hold the regular faculty in 1973–74, but if ‘two or three of the determinants of the 1973–74 budgets work against us, we may have great difficulty in holding our regular staff, both faculty and non-faculty, for 1973–74.’ Because of that possibility, Slater asked the senate committee on academic dismissals to give a high priority to recommendations about criteria and proce-

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dure for dealing with matters of dismissals for budgetary and redundancy reasons, although he hoped that ‘we would make no or minimal use of such procedures.’ When Pinayur Rajagopal, an Atkinson math professor, insisted on a more detailed explanation of the income-expenditure figures in the memorandum, Crowe stepped in to state the obvious that ‘any proposal for termination of regular faculty would have to be fully documented and justified to merit Senate’s confidence.’ Slater agreed that the data were inadequate, but he took ‘as the sense of the meeting the view that cuts to regular faculty and staff would be necessary and that such necessity should not be soft-pedalled.’ I observed that, if my budget base were appropriate under the circumstances, it would not permit a faculty complement in 1973–74 equal to that in 1972–73. The president had presented the same memorandum to the board on 10 October, once again stating that York must soon make its budget and staffing decisions for the 1973–74 session as well as further actions to offset the deficit projected for the current session. ‘A decision to separate faculty members from the University for budgetary reasons must be correct; the negative effects of a wrong decision on either budget or morale could be devastating,’ he warned. The board was concerned about the retention rate in arts – although the rate had improved since September as more students showed up – and the possibility that our share of the first-year market was declining. They also raised the question about the advance time necessary to terminate faculty and decided to meet in a special session on 24 October to consider Slater’s recommendations for both 1972–73 and 1973–74. The president’s council met in two increasingly tense and contentious meetings on 17–18 October. Slater stated that York could not escape a large deficit, as all faculties except Osgoode were below budget projections, and that even with the most stringent budget cutting and the best will in the world – and taking into account contractually limited appointments, resignations, and retirements – he did not see how we could avoid terminating faculty appointments. Moreover, projections for 1973–74, against which the 1972–73 deficit would be a first charge, looked gloomy. Harry Crowe immediately questioned the credibility of the budget figures. Since the budget of 29 March 1972, faculty budgets had been increased by $1.5 million, including the additional million for Lakeshore Teachers’ College and the new Faculty of Education. Most other accounts had remained the same, but the general institutional component had increased by over

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27

millions of dollars

25 20 15 10 5

5

4.7 2.3

2.1

Administration

General institutional

0 Academic

Figure 13.1

Academic support

Physical plant

York operating budget, 1972–73

$500,000. Crowe stated that he found the explanation of Bruce Parkes, the vice-president finance, completely unsatisfactory. Slater and I admitted that we had been puzzled by the increase in that account. The discussion raged for hours on the reliability of the figures, equitable cutting, suggestions that salaries be frozen next year, reasonableness of the allocations to each faculty in relation to the cuts, and the relationship of the shortfalls to the desired cuts. When the council met on 19 October, Parkes had prepared a revised overall statement of income and expenditure. With more than 1,000 BIUs from Lakeshore Teachers’ College, an improved BIU conversion rate for part-time undergraduates, and a higher retention rate, largely in arts, the shortfall was reduced to $3.4 million. With a proposed deficit of $500,000 the cut required was over $2.5 million. Of this amount, physical plant, administration, general institutional, and academic support areas would cut about one million. To deal with the remaining $1.5 million, Slater and Parkes had prepared a formula for faculty cuts based on 60 per cent of the percentage shortfall in BIU income. Because arts had fallen 10.8 per cent, it faced a 6.2 per cent cut or $676,000 of which $625,000 was deemed reasonable by Slater and Parkes. Thus arts would absorb 40 per cent of the total faculty cuts. Senate was to consider a report from the committee on academic dismissals on 19 October. The senate academic policy and planning committee (APPC) met in an emergency session that morning to prepare a statement on the financial position to provide some indication of the

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range of faculty reductions that might be necessary. The president stated that, ‘on his best estimate,’ a cut of $2 million in faculty salaries below the 1972–73 budget would be necessary and the faculty complement would have to be reduced by some 120–140 full-time equivalents for 1973–74. The morning was long and stormy with agreement on one point only: if all else failed, terminations would have to be faced. In his report to senate that afternoon, Ted Olson, the chair of APPC, emphasized that the report was for information only, but seemed more definite than APPC. He believed that ‘a sufficient case’ had been made that York faced ‘a multi-year financial problem of some magnitude’ and that, even after all other cuts, the necessity remained for a very substantial reduction – perhaps sixty to seventy – in the numbers of faculty for 1973–74. Olson felt it fair to state that ‘we lean to the view that, if possible, the crisis should be resolved as soon as possible.’ The president endorsed the proposition of a one-shot solution rather than ‘a protracted grinding down to recovery over several years. The dimensions of York’s problems are uncertain, but it is a real problem ... A financial cutback will be necessary, but in this process must be a concern for maintaining quality innovation, and the due process of dealing with colleagues openly and honestly.’ Crowe and Rajagopal immediately denounced Olson and insisted that his report represented APPC as having reached agreements far more precise than had been agreed upon. The sorry disputations throughout October revealed that the university did not have the capacity to generate accurate, up-to-date, and reliable figures on either income or expenditure and could do no more than speculate about the future. As Dave McQueen, a Glendon economist, observed: ‘There can be few 40–million dollar operations in Canada which have so abysmally bad a system of financial reporting to major decision-making bodies as does York University ... Committees meet and are showered, usually at the last minute, with itsy-bitsy pieces of paper dealing with this aspect and that of the situation. Some of these pieces are virtually illegible.’ Summarizing the constantly changing figures put before the president’s council, APPC, and senate, Tucker concluded that the discrepancies had to be resolved with unanimity before a convincing case for academic dismissals could be made to senate: ‘At the present time if there is any real crisis in York University it lies in the growing doubt on the credibility of vital information on which decisions have to be based.’

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On 20 October, Slater met the board’s executive and finance committee and outlined the data on the current budget and the prospects for 1973–74. They approved his proposal that the $3.4 million deficit be cut to $1.1 million and then reduced by the application of the 1971–72 surplus, for an accumulated deficit of $750,000. But for the 1973–74 session he repeated what he had told PSPC, APPC, and senate – that there was the necessity of a substantial reduction in the academic salary budget, probably of the dimensions he had told us. Given the seriousness of the situation, MacIntosh held a meeting of the executive committee on 23 October: it was agreed that in view of the 1 November deadline for notice of terminations effective 30 June 1973, the committee would propose to the board that the president be requested to take the steps necessary to achieve a 10 per cent reduction in the budget for academic salaries. When David Slater arrived at the special session of the board on 24 October, he was presented with an incredibly blunt and demanding resolution: In view of the 9% shortfall in B.I.U. revenues in 1972–73 compared to budget projections, And given the present projections of student enrolment and income in 1973–74, Be it resolved that: The Board of Governors requests the President to take all necessary actions prior to November 1, 1972 to achieve a reduction in the academic salary load of 10% or $2,700,000 in fiscal 1973–74 from the estimated actual salary load in 1972–73 of $27,000,000. The Board makes this request on the basis of its statutory authority under the York University Act, and affirms the authority of the President to determine the manner in which such a reduction is achieved. The Board further affirms that on grounds of fiscal need, as opposed to questions of academic freedom, the Board and the President cannot be bound by procedural restraints which would prevent or inhibit the President in carrying out its responsibilities. The Board declares that all capital spending projects which have not at this date been commenced are hereby suspended indefinitely.

Staggered by the resolution, Slater replied that university governance was a shared board–senate–administration responsibility and that a strict division of financial and academic matters was not only

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unrealistic but impossible. He proposed that, instead of adhering to the draft resolution, the board, while declaring its statutory fiscal responsibility, request specific alternative proposals by 15 November. He emphasized that the projections in his 20 October presentation were ‘fraught with uncertainty and subject to a possible swing of 35% plus or minus.’ And he pointed out that the $2.7 million would involve not only salaries but other items in faculty budgets and the $2 million in salaries would involve the termination of 110–115 faculty. MacIntosh insisted that he was not seeking a confrontation with the senate but simply upholding the board’s authority under the act and emphasized that the execution of the board’s policy ‘with the advice, but not the consent, of other bodies, is the President’s duty.’ Because there was some doubt about the legal implications of the 1 November deadline for terminations and the possibility of determining the terminations by that date, several members of the board felt that they should accept Slater’s alternative proposals. They also proposed that the potentially inflammatory language be removed by deleting the second to last paragraph of the resolution. The board also approved Slater’s proposal that the resolution include the statement that he was to report back no later than 15 December. The final draft included a softer opening statement than MacIntosh’s draft: ‘The Board wishes to record its awareness of the great difficulties imposed on the President, his administration, and the whole university community by the oneyear lag between the time when the expenditure side of the budget is drawn up and the time when university income for the year is known accurately.’ But the cuts demanded remained. When the president’s council met the next morning, Slater reported at some length on how he had emphasized the necessity of shared responsibility and the ability of the academic community to deal responsibly and effectively with the problems, and he encouraged us to avoid a collision course ‘over spurious issues.’ As he continued with the argument that we needed more time and more data, Harry Crowe quietly interrupted to say that he understood the board had sent a communication to Senate. (How Crowe knew was a mystery, but he always seemed to have his information.) After reading the resolution – which in fact was not a communication to senate – Slater told council that in his report to the board he had made it clear ‘that any assumptions regarding enrolment, cost factors, the effect of new initiatives, the salary and wage rates etc., were very preliminary and required a good deal of concentrated study before any firm decisions would be possi-

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ble.’ He regarded the demand for a budget reduction ‘as a notice that the Board feels the problem is a real and serious one and expects some action to be taken. [He] asserted that he did not feel bound to any particular figure quoted, particularly in view of the wide range of possibilities, recommendations for new initiatives and so on.’ Crowe asked what information the board had seized upon to determine the $2.7 million, and Slater repeated that he had given the board only preliminary projections of the 1973–74 enrolment and made clear the ‘uncertainty of the information, based as it is on an extrapolation of various sorts of hypotheses about the retention rates and the attraction of first year students.’ Crowe declared that it was ‘irresponsible of the Board to act on such inadequate information’ and, in effect, demand the dismissal of 150 people all of whom must be untenured. Crowe repeated the same point throughout the afternoon until we adjourned to attend the special senate meeting. Like other members of the council, I was offended by the board motion and declared it was ‘just one more in a series of battles that have gone on over the past 10 years,’ particularly because it not only demanded a cut but indicated where it must be. The special senate meeting on 25 October, which had been called to consider the report of the academic dismissals committee on terminations for fiscal necessity, was a donnybrook. As soon as the board’s resolution had been read, on cue Henry Best of Atkinson, Crowe’s assistant dean, immediately asked what advice had been given to the board and whether the president had supported the resolution. Slater admitted that the resolution was the result of his presentation to the board but insisted that he ‘had indicated the most preliminary, speculative, qualified views of certain possibilities, and indicated the highly tentative nature of any views that might be attempted at this time.’ He stated that he interpreted the effect of the resolution as an instruction to find solutions to York’s problems, not as an instruction to terminate faculty. Subjected to intense and repeated questions, Slater stated that the ‘specific figure – $2.7 million as 10% of $27 million’ was not his, and that others must take responsibility for it, ‘although the figure is not outlandish, since it would by a combination of pessimistic approaches approximate a figure of $2.7 million as a potential deficit for 1973–74.’ Bert Gerstein, the board’s representative on senate, defended the board’s action and bluntly stated that figures given to the board by

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the president indicated that a reduction of $2.7 million from the academic budgets would be required in 1973–74. Entering the fray, Harry Crowe declared that the data made available on the 1973–74 budgets had been most confusing, and he expressed doubt as to the nature and reliability of the information the president had presented to the board. Slater did not emerge unscathed from the exchange with Gerstein. Al Tucker later recalled, ‘For me the real crisis of 72/73 began with the differences between Gerstein and Slater over whether that figure of $2.7 million ... originated with the President or the Board. From my experience with Gerstein on the [presidential] Search Committee, I had every reason to trust him, while Slater waffled and floundered, leaving one with the impression that there was no firm and clear base to his calculations.’ Before senate could turn to consideration of the report of the academic dismissals committee, two of Crowe’s colleagues at Atkinson successfully moved that a Crowe–Rajagopal motion be considered first. As ultimately amended, the motion stated that ‘no notice of nonrenewal or termination of a probationary or tenured appointment shall be given a faculty member on grounds of budget necessity until procedures for non-renewal or termination of appointment for budget necessity have been adopted by Senate.’ Speaking to his motion, Crowe was in his element. The evil to be avoided was giving academic administrators authority to terminate appointments before senate was convinced of the ‘clear necessity’ and had approved procedures guaranteeing due process. After a spirited debate, the motherhood motion passed unanimously. We then turned to the dismissal committee report. I had concluded that the only way to counter the anxiety and fear among the young faculty was to end debate on the report until we had much more evidence that dismissals might be necessary, as it was clear that senate and even the president’s council were not convinced of the reliability of the 1972–73 budget data or the projections for 1973–74. Earlier in the day I had told a special meeting of the council of the Faculty of Arts that I did not believe a case had been made for the necessity of academic dismissals. I urged the senate to put a hold on further debate and secured permission to make the following motion: That the Senate adjourn debate on Schedule II (of the report) until Wednesday, November 8, when a special meeting shall be called, during which time (unless explicitly over-ruled by Senate on October 26th), a

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Committee of Deans, Budget Officers, the President of YUFA, the Chairman of Senate and the Chairman of APPC, shall: 1 examine the current academic budget; 2 examine the projected income based on enrolments for 1973–74 and conclude that the projections can or cannot be changed, in what manner, and to what extent; 3 examine and place before Senate all alternatives to cutting faculty as a means of introducing budget constraints or reductions; 4 examine with the Board the possibility of deficit financing; 5 and if there seems to be no alternative to terminations of faculty for budgetary purposes, to place before Senate a clear and concise statement of the likely number of terminations of faculty. Such Committee to begin with no assumptions about the validity, financial or academic, of the current operating base of the University Budget, and within it, the various operating budgets.

The motion passed. Senate had been in session for almost four hours. Before the regular senate meeting on 26 October, I met with Harry Arthurs and Barry Richman, who had also been considering the creation of such a committee, and we agreed to bring forward a joint recommendation that involved slight amendments to my original motion. The committee was to be called the Joint Committee on Alternatives (JCOA) and added to its members a representative of the staff association and of the senate academic dismissals committee. My third clause was amended with the addition of ‘including new initiatives and all possible retrenchment measures for the period 1973–74.’ The fourth clause added ‘or alternative arrangements,’ and a new fifth clause read ‘formulate comprehensive recommendations in the light of determined facts which shall be submitted to the relevant units of the University for their examination and comment.’ The JCOA was to have wide-ranging powers and the full support of the administrative staff, and was not to be chaired by a dean, vice-president, or president. After further discussion, the revised motion passed. Meanwhile, Slater had written to MacIntosh on 26 October reporting that a ‘grave situation’ had developed at York because of the board’s resolution. ‘I urge you in the strongest possible terms to proceed deliberately and carefully in these matters. The course of action which I recommended to the Board would, I believe, have been a helpful and constructive one; the course which has been followed has raised very

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grave difficulties within the University.’ MacIntosh’s reply the next day was much more conciliatory than his original resolution and made no explicit attempt to place the $2.7 million figure at Slater’s feet. The resolution, he wrote, was an expression of apprehension about the financial position of the university and ‘it was therefore clear that our request to you conveyed the hope that you would be successful in reconciling to the greatest possible extent the necessary statutory fiscal constraints with legitimate career expectations of the teaching personnel.’ The president had acted ‘on a proper understanding’ of the resolution, and MacIntosh was confident that he would return to the board with a recommendation ‘that enables us to discharge our duties with due regard to the welfare of the entire University community.’ The executive committee of the board had met and had ‘unanimously expressed our satisfaction with the action taken by Senate in their meeting that afternoon, which we regarded as a constructive step toward a solution of the problem which confronts us all.’ For the moment at least, the crisis had abated. We had bought some time.

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14 An Unnecessary Tragedy, 1972–1973

The four months after the creation of the Joint Committee on Alternatives (JCOA) in October 1972 were as tumultuous as any in York’s early history, indeed, in all its history. The work was all consuming, with subcommittees and the committee as a whole meeting daily and often into the early morning hours. On the whole, the JCOA was disposed to try to work through the financial crisis, although several members, probably influenced by Harry Crowe, were quarrelsome and obstructive. The president was splendidly cooperative, but he did keep bombarding us with his yellow sheets of paper littered with figures and long memos on administrative restructuring and the shortterm, intermediate term, and long-term planning process. Through a succession of misunderstandings and mistakes and, it seems to me now, some deliberate undermining of the president’s authority and credibility as well as some well-meaning but misguided advice by senators ‘loyal’ to the president, the work of the JCOA ended with a major break between most of the deans and the president. Not one to sit by, Robert MacIntosh – and the board – immediately adopted a tough stance that made the situation worse and, in the end, forced David Slater‘s resignation. As author of the motion to create the JCOA, I called a meeting immediately after the adjournment of senate. We agreed that Howard Roberston, chair of Senate, should chair the committee. A professor of French from Glendon, he was fair and reasonable with a tough and analytical mind, and he proved to be an excellent chair and spokesperson in our presentations to the board of governors. We agreed to his proposal that the preponderance of deans be countered by the creation

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of subcommittees with broader membership. After a long debate on Saturday 28 October, we approved the creation of the eight committees proposed by Roberston. The most immediately important was committee 1 on the 1972–73 operating budget, staffed by Bruce Parkes and Pinayur Rajagopal, the representative of the faculty association. Of critical importance was committee 2 on enrolments and income for 1973–75 chaired by Ted Olson, the chair of APPC. I chaired committee 3 on operations and budgets, which was ‘to establish the categories by which budget officers must give data and explanations’ and ‘to collect the hard facts plus the rationales for anything that may have been requested or for anything which may appear bizarre.’ Other committees dealt with voluntary opportunities for faculty and staff, such as early retirements or educational and sabbatical leaves ; new initiatives, cross-teaching, and part-time opportunities, chaired by Harry Crowe; and the legal implications of faculty terminations, chaired by Harry Arthurs. By 4 November, committee 1 had prepared a definitive statement on the 1972–73 budget. Since 16 October an additional 328 BIUs had been found – worth $568,000 – largely as a result of more returning students in arts than anticipated. With over $2 million cut since the 18 October budget, the deficit was $1,057,000 but with an accumulated surplus of $325,000, the final deficit for the year was estimated to be $705,000. That figure, which was not far from Parkes’s earlier estimates, was accepted unanimously by the JCOA. However, the first preliminary report of the crucial committee on enrolments was controversial and would continue to be throughout the life of the JCOA. The committee did not attempt to produce minimum figures but what they described as ‘conservative likelihood’ projections. Harry Crowe adamantly refused to accept the estimates for Atkinson and demanded successfully that the figures be increased. I found the projections for arts not unrealistic but a ‘bedrock minimum.’ There were a number of factors I thought might improve the outlook: the attraction of the new Faculty of Education, whose first-year students were enrolled in arts; active recruiting of undergraduates by administrative studies, the first two years of which were spent in arts; the growing strength of our graduate programs; measures to improve retention rates; and the likelihood that the negative impact of the University of Toronto admissions policy would not be unduly severe. Fine arts planned a smaller intake, given its scarcity of resources. Glendon was also at bedrock, but the Faculty of Arts was

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prepared to give them access to our application pool despite our own problems. Science, law, environmental studies, and administrative studies accepted the figures as projected. Discussion continued for hours. Some wanted more optimistic figures to discourage the board from forcing draconian faculty cuts; others warned that unrealistic figures would simply compound the problems; and still others favoured a range for each faculty and for the university as a whole. Olson, who insisted repeatedly that the committee’s figures were based on the best possible analysis and assumptions, refused to budge. Finally, despite his opposition, the JCOA voted to refer the report back to the committee. When Olson returned two days later with much the same report, Crowe and Rajagopal again led the attack. They questioned not only the figures but also the assumptions behind them. With no agreement possible, the JCOA agreed to report on the problem but not provide the data to senate on 8 November. The report to senate was slim but the meeting was spirited because of two motions by Rajagopal and Michiel Horn, the president of the York University Faculty Association (YUFA). Some suspected the motions were inspired by Harry Crowe. The first asked senate to approve a statement that, in view of what Rajagopal regarded as a small deficit, the fact that Slater had indicated on 26 October that the board was willing ‘to take major risks in supporting the University’s staffing and budgeting problems,’ and because the threat of dismissals was causing ‘unnecessary panics,’ senate believed that there will be no terminations of contracts of probationary or tenured faculty on budgetary grounds for 1973–74 and ‘requests the President to inform the faculty and staff accordingly.’ The motion, which was clearly premature and intended to undermine the work of the JCOA, was referred back. Debate on a second motion to dissolve the JCOA was cut short by the adjournment of a meeting that had carried on for more than three hours. Horn then announced that YUFA would not be represented on the JCOA but would participate only as an observer. The following afternoon I gave a progress report to the arts faculty council. While suggesting that our poor retention rate was in part due to the fact that arts was a feeder faculty for other faculties, I emphasized also that many students surveyed were not satisfied with their courses, their life on campus, and their professors. I summarized the objectives of ‘Operation Breakthrough’ and then outlined several new

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initiatives I wanted the faculty to discuss: a part-time program, a dropin year to begin in January, a transitional-year program for the disadvantaged, an advanced placement program, and the creation of a faculty advisory centre. Council approved the proposals in principle and senate later approved the drop-in year. David Slater met with the executive and finance committee of the board on 10 November and the full board on 13 November. He explained that, on the advice of the university solicitors, he had determined that there could be no dismissals of tenured and probationary faculty on budgetary grounds for 1973–74 and that terminations for budgetary reasons for 1974–75 should be kept to ‘a minimal level’ and, if new initiatives were successful, could perhaps be limited to ‘zero.’ Terminations of contractual faculty were being studied case by case. The deficit for 1973–74 could be reduced if decisions were made for some terminations by 1 February 1973. Slater then distributed two projections for income and expenditure and very wisely emphasized that the figures were neither a recommendation nor a prediction but were intended merely to inform the board as to directions the university’s finances might conceivably take under various hypotheses. York would run a deficit in 1973–74 but during 1974–75 the accumulated operating deficit should be reduced. He later told the JCOA that the board had seemed sympathetic to the financial prospects. The JCOA report to senate on 22 November was one of progress rather than accomplishments. However, it included an important statement on terminations of faculty: The Joint Committee wishes to report to Senate that it envisages that there will be no terminations of faculty members holding probationary or tenured appointments for effect in 1973–74 for reasons of budget necessity. Further the Joint Committee has recommended to the administration that termination for budgetary reasons of other faculty for effect in 1973–74 should be kept to a minimal level, and if terminations are necessary that they be carried out by an orderly programme, properly announced, having due regard to the University’s commitments and practices

During the discussion of the report in senate, the president stated that ‘earlier attempts to force an almost immediate return to a balanced

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budget by terminating faculty for 1973–74 were rather short-sighted, and that there seemed now to be a general acceptance of the view that faculty terminations should be only a last resort, if other alternatives fail to improve the University’s position sufficiently.’ Senate approved the continuation of the JCOA until 13 December, when it was to present a final report. The work of the JCOA, the senate, and the comments of the president were not appreciated by the board chairman, who had closely monitored our proceedings. The day after senate met, MacIntosh wrote a long and rather severe letter to Slater. ‘I think we should have specific data on how many appointments were not renewed for academic reasons in the past year, and your expectations for nonrenewal on academic grounds in the coming year. My impression is that the number is very small although Y.U.F.A. agreed at the time of our last salary increase that there would be a rigorous approach to academic dismissals.’ He also wanted data on upcoming retirements and the extent to which sabbaticals would affect the 1973–74 salary budget. MacIntosh was also troubled by the view, held by Slater and the JCOA, that we should minimize nonrenewals of contractually limited faculty in 1973–74. As I understand it there are about 70 on one-year contracts, and another 30 or so on longer term contracts. While we should clearly want to keep outstanding people or people in those disciplines where course registrations are growing, I do not see why we have any great moral obligations for this group as a whole ... Since the Senate and the Joint Committee on Alternatives have not at any time addressed themselves to the expenditure side of the budget, I do not see how it is possible at this stage to take such a definite stance about minimizing dismissals and nonrenewals.

He emphasized that the board ‘has not accepted in principle that we should minimize dismissals and nonrenewals, or that we should seek to use private sources of funds to bolster the budgetary position. The Board has so far only accepted the position regarding 1973–74 renewals for tenured and probationary staff on the grounds of the legal position.’ At the JCOA meeting of 21 November, Barry Richman, who had arrived as dean of administrative studies in July 1972, had proposed

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Figure 14.1 Three-way power struggle lurks behind the budget. Excalibur (1 November 1972) pictured the struggle as one between the faculty, led by the deans, the board, and the president, but did admit that in fact the president was caught in the middle. The paper was correct in seeing the creation of the JCOA as the assertion of faculty and senate power in relation to that of the president and the board in an attempt to resolve the financial crisis. I was uncomfortable being linked with Crowe and Rajagopal as our means and objectives were different if not conflicting.

the appointment of a management task force to carry on its work, beginning with the recommendations to be made by committee 3, which I chaired. Subject to the control of the president and the board, the task force would have a far-reaching mandate to rationalize the administrative machinery of the university. The JCOA had agreed with Slater that the motion was premature. However, perhaps influenced by the Richman proposal, Slater told his senior administrative committee two days later that there was a need for ‘a shift in organizational emphasis on the part of the Central Administration.’ He insisted ‘there must be some order and central organization to co-ordinate the various areas of the University ... and any reorganization will have to command a broadly based and consolidated support. There is not a great deal of time in which to devise new administrative patterns or else the momentum generated by the Joint Committee will be dissipated.’ He wanted a ‘definite proposal’ to go to the president’s council on Monday, 27 November. Later that day he met with the deans. Again he emphasized the need

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to undertake a major overhaul of the operational machinery of the university – although what exactly he meant was not clear – and he proposed that I undertake the task. After some discussion I replied that I would consider it, as my replacement as dean had already been selected, but I wanted assurance from all the deans that I would have their approval and support. All agreed. When the meeting broke up, I had further discussions with Slater about his somewhat vague proposal and I said would think about it over the weekend. Later that afternoon a note was delivered to the president from Harry Crowe refusing to support the proposal. From Thursday night until Sunday I brooded over the proposal and talked to a number of my decanal and other colleagues. Finally, on Sunday 26 November, I drafted this response, which the president would receive on Monday morning: I don’t know what Monday will bring in terms of scheduling a meeting with you, so I am taking the liberty of putting my considered views concerning our discussions on Thursday before you. I have decided that it would not be in my interest, your interest or the interest of the University to accept the short-term position you discussed with me. The refusal of Dean Crowe to offer his support has not been in any way the critical factor in my decision [I should have pointed out that the task force would face constant obstruction and sabotage]. Let me outline the reasons. 1. The University, through the Joint Committee, has embarked on a systematic review of our current position and has the responsibility to come before Senate with an overall statement of our position, our alternatives and our likely future prospects ... It would be premature to take any action until that Committee has reported to Senate, and any future arrangement such as you suggest should come as a recommendation of the Joint Committee. 2. While in conversation with me I think you admitted that any such person, working with Senate and the Deans, would have to consider the Faculties – which generate all the income and spend most of it – apparently in other discussions you expressly excluded Faculty operations from the proposed organization. Already, therefore, the position lacks a precise job description and is bound to create extraordinary difficulties and controversies. Such ambiguity would make the position impossible.

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3. The proposal is already suspect, or would become so. I gather that the Vice Presidents were not told you had approached me after outlining the job ... There are now as many views of the position as there are Deans and Vice-Presidents. This would make any immediate move towards such an appointment impossible to achieve. 4. Repeatedly, over the past several years the President’s Council and Senate have considered a variety of organizational charts. Our discussion has not yet led to a permanent administrative organization, or on planning and budget interaction with Senate. And now a major change in structure suddenly emerges. Such a sudden move cannot help but excite concern and anxiety, however well intentioned the proposal, and would, I think, serve to heat up not cool the current situation, and might aggravate rather than lessen the so-called crisis of confidence. 5. Speaking personally, I still have some credibility in the University, and have the power, however, limited, to act and speak for its collective good. I don’t think I can jeopardize that, and I am afraid that leaping into this short-term solution at this time would do just that. I am sorry that I have had to come to that conclusion. I realize that you must have considered other people for the position. I hope that you realize that while I am saying no to your proposal I am also urging you not to proceed with the change at this moment, but rather to think more in terms of process than structure and to work closely with the Joint Committee on Alternatives.

I have no recollection of a reply from David in conversation or writing but it was not to be the end of the story. On 30 November, the JCOA liaison committee of Howard Robertson, Harry Crowe, David McQueen, and Slater, and myself met with the board of governors. Robertson reported that the work of the committee was progressing and tabled a document listing eight new initiatives that JCOA hoped would increase income. MacIntosh had opened the meeting by admitting that the board sometimes could make ‘fairly quick judgments’ on the basis of the available data. He also said that the board accepted the legal position on the dismissal of probationary and tenured faculty, but with reference to other faculty he reminded us that the goal of the university was to provide the best education possible, not to maximize ‘job security for its employees.’ When Robertson had finished his report, the discussion immediately turned to the ter-

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mination of faculty. MacIntosh pointed out that there were about one hundred contractually limited faculty, many of whose contracts would end on 30 June 1973 and who should receive notice of non-renewal by 1 February. He insisted that terminations in this group be maximized to retain as much budget flexibility as possible. When one board member wondered whether we had given much consideration to the revenue side by making York more attractive to students, I replied that we had done a good deal in that area, with proposals yet to come forward to cut through administrative red tape in admissions, and to start a York bus system to enlarge our catchment area and make York less isolated, and with the beginning of a drop-in year in arts with a target enrolment of a hundred students. For the next ten days the JCOA concentrated on its review of the subcommittees’ recommendations as they came forward. Meetings on 3–4 December were devoted almost exclusively to the report of my committee. We made observations or recommendations on faculty budgets and teaching loads, the locus of responsibility for non-degree studies, reorganization of the central administration, and the whole area of ancillary services. We found the analysis of faculties interesting and informative, particularly the widely divergent ‘tax rates’ – that is, the expenditure of each faculty as a percentage of the income earned – but agreed that the data were not sufficiently sophisticated to be immediately useful as a foundation for budget analysis, though they could potentially be useful in the future. We had concluded that ‘the present organizational structure of the University was one of the most serious obstacles in the way of efficient and economical service.’ Without drafting an organizational chart, we suggested that thought be given to a reorganization based on four broad and internally consistent areas of activity: academic services, particularly the need to create a university-wide computerized record system; student and faculty services; administration and finance; and academic services, including the library, research centres and institutes, and research administration. We also recommended that the residences, food services, college senior common rooms, and the bookstore – all of which ran deficits – become self-sustaining. While there might be good user arguments against these proposals – such as book store credit for students – we believed the onus should be on the user to prove that the drain on university resources was appropriate. We had concluded that the whole matter of ‘what York is like’ – non-academically – posed problems for

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recruitment and retention, and we recommended the creation of a presidential committee to ‘arrive at a policy as to what facilities are needed on campus to create the kind of culture congenial to students, faculty and staff.’ Finally, we recommended that with the opening of the York Mills subway station in March 1973 and the Finch station in June 1974, York should rent two TTC buses to provide a regular service between the stations and York. To serve students who lived west of York, we recommended the establishment of a service from the Mimico GO Station, the Islington subway station, and Dixon Road and Kipling to the campus. We estimated that with a twenty-five-cent fare, the net operating costs would be $80,000 (later recalculated as $62,000). JCOA’s most important work before meeting the board on 11 December and making a final report to senate on 13 December was to project enrolment and income for 1973–74 and prepare a provisional budget. Olson’s committee on enrolment projected 15,035 students, or 21,957 BIUs, in 1973, which would generate an income of $41,016,000. Projected arts enrolment was 5,264 and our earned BIUs 7,000, or almost 70 per cent of the undergraduate revenue. In addition arts probably earned half of the 4,000 BIUs from graduate teaching. My suggestion that the undergraduate numbers might be a little low was based on nothing but intuition. (As it happened, undergraduate enrolment was about five hundred more than projected, as the firstyear intake was larger and the retention rate higher than estimated.) We looked at a possible 1973–74 budget on 4 December with proposed figures for faculty cuts, redeployment, and administrative savings. I commented that I would need more time to consider whether $623,000 could be recovered from deployment of excess faculty to courses currently taught by part-timers, and I pointed out that while 68 of the 105 faculty whose contracts would expire were in the Faculty of Arts, many were in areas of high student demand. Savings resulting from administrative changes seemed high to me because they would bring payoffs only one or two years down the road. However, on 10 December I said that we might save $375,000 at once and over a million in a few years if the recommendations of our committee were taken seriously. We guesstimated the effect of a variety of new initiatives and came up with a range of from 205 to 395 additional students. On 10 December the JCOA completed its budget deliberations. It projected revenue of $42,716,000 and normal expenditures of

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$42,389,000 minus $874,000 for faculty cuts, redeployment, and so on, for total of $41,515,000. We then added $200,000 for unionized staff increases, $1.2 million for academic salary increases, and an additional million for new and growing faculties. Finally, we agreed on a deficit of between $1,295,000 and $1,630,000. When we accepted the Olson committee’s figures for enrolment and income (supported in a study by David McQueen), Rajagopal resigned from the JCOA. The JCOA met with the board on 11 December. Robertson outlined our budget proposals, the number of new initiatives planned, and possible savings and increased efficiency as a result of the work of the committee on operations and budgets. The board was much less content than it had seemed at our first appearance and was clearly unhappy with the financial figures. Alex Barron, in particular, though he doubtless expressed the view of most members, found the addition of $2.2 million in faculty budgets excessive. Arthurs replied that some growing faculties had to recruit more new staff, as did those undertaking new initiatives. Although it was not for the JCOA to determine salaries, it was realistic for us to assume something like a 4 per cent increase in faculty salaries. But all agreed that the final budget recommendations would reach the board through the president, not through the JCOA. Following the discussion, we were able to state in our final report to senate on 13 December: It would appear that the Board is indeed prepared to consider deficit financing if the detailed budget recommendations which the President will take to them are logical and realistic, and if there is convincing evidence that 1974–75 would see a return to balanced budgeting. In this regard, the Joint Committee replied to the Board, and states here to Senate, that given the variety of new initiatives with delayed pay-offs, the hardening of student commitment to staying in university, the increase in BIU value and/or formula stabilization, continued administrative rationalization, attrition and improved performance, a balanced budget could be achieved. The Committee does wish, however, to register one caveat – the Board will find it difficult in accepting a larger 1973–74 budget proposal which entails a large operating deficit in 1973–74, than the one year deficit in 1972–73, of $1,057,000. There is going to have to be exerted an immense pressure to keep the 1973–74 deficit down, both in planning for next year and performance next year.

We had at least moved the board from the 24 October resolution and the termination of many faculty. (And the 1973–74 deficit of more than

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another million would be ultimately determined by the board’s willingness to provide a 4½ per cent increase in faculty salaries.) Robertson did a masterful job in presenting the final report to Senate on 13 December. Senate had before it the full report, and Robertson wisely emphasized that the potential pay-off of the new initiatives, proposed new structures, administrative reorganization, faculty redeployment, study of ancillary services, and many other matters examined were only our best estimates. During the discussion I observed that the longer the life span of the new initiatives the higher the savings. The 13 December report was our last. Meanwhile, another drama had been unfolding. Over the 3 December weekend, David Slater had been busy drafting a long memo on ‘Process, Structure, Organization and Administrative Responsibilities’ to be put in place after 13 December, when the JCOA was to finish its work. He proposed a successor joint committee to carry on the work of the JCOA and act as the budget advisory committee for 1973–75. The explanation read: It is ... my hope that the new Joint Committee on Budget and Plans would have broad representation and support, and that it could be the focal point for major Task Force operations on University planning, on alternatives and organization, carrying forward the work ... [of] subcommittees of the JCOA. This work must be integrated with the ongoing responsibilities of the APPC [academic planning and policy committee] of Senate. In particular I would hope that the work of Technical Committee 3 could be carried forward under this new aegis, and with the same type of leadership. [In the margin a ‘JTS!’ was scrawled by someone who had seen the draft.] If put into place, this new Joint Committee would interface with the planning, priorities and budget committee of the Board. It is my hope also to persuade some academic colleagues to take on acting roles in academic administration to help carry us through the essential work of the next few months. But it does not seem appropriate to make either major arrangements or long term appointments at this juncture. We need time to rework the processes, structure, organizational arrangements of the University in something other than a crisis management situation ... In these circumstances the President will have to take directly the main responsibility for most of the relations with the Deans on budget, appointments, tenure, promotion, leaves, and major changes in academic policy (recognizing the primacy of Senate on academic matters,

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of course) during this period. But he will have to obtain the help of academic colleagues in this work, colleagues who are held in high respect generally in the University. The President will have to delegate other responsibilities as soon as possible.

As far as I know, the memo was never circulated and the president did not discuss it with me, despite the ‘JTS’ annotation. He may have sought advice from others about the memo, including perhaps Terry Olson, chair of political science at Glendon, who had been seconded as his policy adviser, or Terry’s older brother Ted, the chair of APPC. He may simply have had second thoughts. Whatever the reasons, Slater prepared a second draft (dated 7 December) of his memo. The first paragraph of the original was replaced with the proposal that after 13 December ‘it is highly desirable that we return immediately to the regular legitimate and responsible arrangements for policy formulation, policy and budget determination, legislation, and the implementation of programs within the University.’ He noted that the recommendations of the JCOA would be transferred to the appropriate senate committees and that a ‘small steering committee appears desirable for the remainder of the 1972–73 year to ensure the fulfillment of the work of the Joint Committee and to blend this work with that of the regular bodies and responsible officers. The steering committee would be chaired by the President and would consist of the President, the Chairman of Senate, the Secretary of Senate, the Chairman of the Academic Policy and Planning Committee, a representative of the Committee of Deans ... ’ In an additional paragraph he emphasized that, ‘on administrative matters, the President has an inescapable responsibility and authority, subject to the York University Act. It is my intention, in the light of the work of the JCOA, the enormous burden of work now demanding attention and the health and energy of the administrative officers, to begin a systematic program of rearrangements in administrative work and responsibilities.‘ The JCOA had not seen this memo on 7 December, when we discussed the presentation the liaison committee was to make to the board, although Slater must have been thinking about it. It was not one of the president’s worst meetings, but his constant interventions and general wordiness were not helpful and were beginning to get us all down. After the meeting, Robertson, McQueen, and I retired to Harry Crowe’s office for a drink. During a long and despondent conversa-

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tion, we agreed that Slater did not realize that he was losing the confidence of the committee, certainly of the deans. Moreover, Walter Tarnopolksy, the vice-president (academic), had resigned a few days earlier, convinced that Slater was an obstruction and was unwilling to face the fact that hard decisions had to be made. Robertson and McQueen decided that it would be prudent to advise the president of the growing lack of confidence in his leadership, and that they were the appropriate people to tell him. McQueen recalls that they consulted Bill Farr that night or the next morning to be assured that our views were widely shared, and then talked to Slater. Exactly what was said and how it was said McQueen does not remember. But our object – certainly that of McQueen, Robertson, and myself – was to cool Slater down and to encourage him to talk less of the long term and attend to the business at hand. But the results were instantaneous, dramatic, and the opposite of what we intended, although it is clear from the 7 December memo that the president had already embarked on a course of his own. Michiel Horn recalled that on the afternoon of Friday 8 December, Slater summoned him and four senior academics to his office at Glendon ‘and asked us whether he would have faculty support if he sought to regain his presidential power. Our response was cautiously guarded, but I had the sense that what we said mattered little. He already knew what he wanted to do.’ When the JCOA met at Glendon at 10 a.m. on Saturday 9, December Slater asked that the meeting be held in camera. He then said that he had received indications that there was dissatisfaction with his leadership and that if he did not have the support of a ‘significant majority’ of the JCOA and if there was not broad support for him generally, he would resign. Before leaving the meeting, he placed his 7 December memorandum before us and indicated that acceptance of the structure was an ‘essential condition’ if he were to remain in office. He then left the meeting and for the rest of the day summoned each of the deans, and perhaps other members of the JCOA, to meet him and indicate their views about his leadership. I remember that I spoke cautiously to him about some his shortcomings and the lack of consistency in his approach to the work of the JCOA, but never indicated that he should think of resigning. That day he also called in a group of prominent senators, among them John Warkentin, Sydney Eisen, David Hoffman, Michael Creal, and Don Warwick, and asked them whether he should resign.

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Warwick, chair of sociology, wrote me a week later that ‘To a man, all of us felt that a resignation at this point would be a disaster for York. None of us had or have any illusions about David’s abilities to manage. Still, we felt that a resignation under the gun and in a crisis atmosphere would only aggravate the crisis and worsen an already dismal situation regarding enrolments, morale etc. He did not at any time ask whether he should administer a loyalty oath to Harry Crowe. If he had I, and I am sure the others, would have told him it was an utterly stupid move, which it proved to be.’ Warwick added that ‘It is apparent that [Slater] has been the victim of a vicious and well-executed campaign of harassment, slander, undercutting, and other disgusting activities led by a Dean known to all of us.’ Also on 9 December, Barry Richman received a call from MacIntosh (then in Ottawa, I believe), who said the board would accept Slater’s resignation if it was offered. He gave Richman permission to speak with some other deans, which he apparently did, though not with me. What lay behind MacIntosh’s call remains a mystery, for neither the JCOA nor the deans, with one exception, had urged Slater’s resignation. But somehow word had reached him of dissatisfaction with Slater’s leadership, and he would seem to have jumped at the opportunity to accept his resignation. After Slater had finished his meetings with us on 9 December, we returned to the work of the JCOA. Some suggested that we turn to the 7 December memo, while others refused even to discuss it. Finally, Richman suggested a straw vote to see how much support there was for a motion that it was ‘in the best interest of the University’ for Slater to stay in office. The vote was twelve to seven in favour, with all but two Deans (Crowe and perhaps Heller of fine arts) with the majority, and the minority composed largely of Crowe’s supporters. The result was communicated to the president who apparently felt that it – and his other consultations – represented sufficiently broad support for him to remain in office. He then instructed the JCOA to return to a discussion of his memo the following day. On Sunday morning, 10 December, I was late for the meeting at Glendon. When I arrived I found the members out in the hall. Harry Arthurs rushed over and told me what had happened. The president had arrived with a prepared statement in which he stated that he had broad and general support. He then turned to Harry Crowe and issued an ultimatum demanding that within five minutes Crowe declare his

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loyalty and support or resign or be fired. Crowe refused and left the room. Robertson immediately adjourned the meeting. When we went back to the room, Richman and Tucker told Slater that in a university such a decision could not be made so arbitrarily. They added that the straw vote was not necessarily a vote that he should serve out his term of president. Slater then left the meeting. In his report to senate on 13 December, Howard Robertson described the course he had followed as chair of the JCOA: On the matter of the widely publicized in camera meetings of December 9 and 10, I wish to report that I made it clear at the time and again subsequently that from approximately 3:00 p.m. on Saturday December 9 until approximately 2:00 p.m. on Sunday December 10, the discussions that took place were not discussions of the J.C.O.A. and that no Senate business was transacted during that time. Although during those meetings of members of the committee I had no formal authority, I acted as chairman because of the highly charged and frequently intensely personal nature of the matters discussed there. No minutes were kept of the talk that went on and I am, like the other members of the committee there present, at liberty to discuss what went on only as my conscience permits me to do so.

After lunch on the 10th we met again officially as the JCOA, spending the day discussing enrolment figures, budget projections, and the likely cost of salary raises and new appointments to try to reach an approximate estimate of the likely deficit for 1973–74 in preparation for our meeting with the board the next day (as discussed above). Towards the end of the afternoon we turned our attention to Slater’s memo. According to the minutes, I expressed the view that the JCOA was under no compunction at all to consider the president’s memo and moved that we adjourn and authorize the chairman to reconvene the JCOA at a time of his choice to consider the matter of a report to the senate. Before going home, Bill Farr read a draft report to the board he claimed to have written while the rest of us were upstairs in the common room ‘drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes.’ We accepted his draft as a reasonable framework for our report to the board the next day. Later that afternoon, MacIntosh, with Richman’s assistance, held a meeting at his Rosedale home of four other members of the board and seven deans (and, as I recall, Robertson), all of whom had supported

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the president in the 12–7 straw vote. The purpose of the meeting was to have a frank discussion of recent events and to alert the board to the crisis that seemed to be unfolding. Unaware of the meeting, Slater told the board the next day, 11 December, that he had undertaken some ‘structured discussions’ within the past few days to determine the degree of support for his presidency and had come to a positive conclusion, although it was likely that a certain amount of publicity might be generated by Crowe and his faculty who dissented from this view. However, he had no recommendation to make, and the board agreed the matter should not be pursued further. On 11 December after its meeting with the board, the JCOA turned to a discussion of the procedures for continuing its work. We had three documents before us: the president’s 7 December memo; the original proposal by Barry Richman for a management task force, which he had withdrawn; and Rajagopal’s earlier proposal that the JCOA cease to function and give way to a variety of senate committees. After a long and heated discussion, Robertson proposed that we adopt something very much like Rajagopal’s proposal to the effect that the successor to the JCOA be a number of senate committees. After yet more discussion revealed that many wanted to see something like a management committee emerge from the ashes of the JCOA, it was suggested that Richman prepare a motion recommending how the work undertaken by the JCOA might best be continued. Richman and others retired to an adjoining room and emerged later with a motion drafted by Harry Arthurs but incorporating Richman’s ideas. The motion, which was to become critical, read as follows: That the JCOA recommends the establishment of a Co-ordinating Committee which would have two main functions. First, it would have responsibility for completing studies begun by the JCOA and broadly, for undertaking the implementation of the recommendations of the JCOA. In this connection it would relate first of all to the President, of course, reporting, but also by exercising delegated authority from the President in connection with the implementation of the recommendations, so far as they fall within the President’s authority. In relation to Senate it will seek appropriate legislation or other action on matters than fall within the authority of Senate. In relation to budgetary matters it will likewise perform two functions. First it will make recommendations concerning the global budget. The

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President, after consultation with the President’s Council and the Deans, will make the final budget presentation. In relation to Senate, the Committee will seek the advice of Senate concerning academic priorities and will seek to ensure the reflection of these priorities in any recommendations that it undertakes. In support of its recommendations, it will provide firm and reliable data upon which decisions can be based. In regard to the operation of the Committee it will have the power to delegate functional tasks flowing out of the above mentioned activities to specific individuals, both academic and support staff. In regard to the composition of the Committee, it will be composed of a maximum of three people: Mr. Parkes and Dean Richman with Dean Saywell as Chairman.

Moved by Arthurs and Richman, the motion passed with one abstention. In many ways the resolution was similar to, though more detailed than, the proposal President Slater had made to me in November – as Richman and other deans noted – and perhaps it was that which led to the almost unanimous agreement that I chair the committee and report directly to the president. I said that I supported the motion but that I had to reserve judgment about my membership as my ‘obligations as teacher and author were particularly burdensome at this time,’ but it was far more to the point that I was exhausted. Richman then said he too reserved judgment until he knew who would be on the committee. David Slater soon had a copy of the resolution. The next morning, Tuesday 12 December, he called me across the hall into his office. I don’t remember the precise details of our conversation, but it was to the effect that he took the resolution as equivalent to a motion of nonconfidence and in effect placed the university and its president in a kind of trusteeship. I assured him that had not been our intention. He asked me to work with whatever structure ultimately emerged but stated that the one proposed was totally unacceptable both to him and to others in the senate. He also called Richman, who told me that Slater had threatened and denounced him for supporting the motion. Later in the day the president called in many of the same group of senators whom he had consulted on Saturday and read them the text of the resolution. As Warwick wrote me a few days later: Again, to a man every person in the room (this time only 5 or 6) felt the same: that the wording of the resolution was such that it created a kind

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of governing junta. Slater reported that he and several others whom he had asked reacted in the same way, he also said that the drafters claimed that it was not their intention to put the presidency in trusteeship to a committee. Our advice was straightforward: the resolution as written was unacceptable and would meet violent opposition in the Senate; if it was not the intention of the JC to create a new governing body, then the President should state his objections and try to work out an acceptable compromise. Unfortunately, I gather that once again he put this in terms of a vote of confidence, and thus muddied the waters even further.

Later that day I wrote the following letter to David Slater Dear David: I have concluded that the events of the past weeks, not just days, have altered our official relationship beyond repair. In fairness to the Faculty of which I am Dean I think it should be represented in its relations with the President and his Council by the Dean Designate. ‘In the interests of the University’ seems to be fashionable these days, but in those interests, which I have never failed to serve for almost ten years, I am prepared to remain as Dean, responsible for the internal running of the Faculty until the end of my term. If, however, you would prefer it otherwise I will gladly submit my resignation today. I must add that before our conversation this morning I had decided not to serve on the proposed committee, not only because of the sad state of my academic and faculty work but also because of the conclusion expressed in the first sentence of this letter. Sincerely Jack

Meanwhile Slater had asked Howard Roberston to call a meeting of the JCOA to reconsider the resolution. When we met on the night of Tuesday, 12 December, Slater stated that he regarded the resolution ‘as a clear indication, broadly and generally supported, of non-confidence in himself’ and that, if senate should pass the motion, he would take it as ‘a further expression of non-confidence.’ He stated that his interpretation was one shared by several senior senators and asked the JCOA to reflect upon it and inform him by noon on 13 December as to its position. He then presented the text of three proposals that represented ‘courses of action of varying degrees of preferment.’ The first called for a university budget advisory group to advise the pres-

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ident on all aspects of the budget and also to attempt to establish an internal allocating formula that could provide the core of future budget planning. The members were two senate academics, as chair and vice-chair, two deans (Richman and myself), and one other member chosen by senate, with the president ex-officio but not a regular participatory member. The second proposal was for a coordinating committee on alternatives to carry on the work of the JCOA and to ‘take responsibility for implementing those recommendations which are delegated to it by the Senate under Senate jurisdiction, and the President, under Presidential jurisdiction’ but to transfer that responsibility as quickly as possible to the senate and president. The composition was identical to the budget advisory group, but the two deans were to be selected by the JCOA. This proposal also contained provisions for five presidential task forces and for major changes in administrative organization, including a committee of deans to operate on its own terms and under its own chairmanship. The third and least preferred course of action introduced a series of amendments to the JOAC resolution clearly asserting presidential authority and responsibility. After his presentation, Slater left the meeting. Richman immediately suggested a straw vote to determine how many were inclined to stand by Slater’s resolution. I said immediately that ,whatever the outcome, I would not serve on the proposed committee – either ours or Slater’s. Richman followed suit. With the committee in disarray, Robertson called a recess. In retrospect, Slater’s proposals for two committees, however garbled his presentation, were not without merit and in substance were much the same as the resolution of the JCOA but with the emphatic reassertion of presidential authority and responsibility. His proposed task forces and administrative rearrangements were highly commendable, and we should have been able to work within them, even with his amendments to our resolution. It had not been our intention – despite the unfortunate language of Arthur’s hastily written text – to abolish, suspend, or usurp his authority. But in a sense it was far too late; the situation was out of control. Despite his intentions, the president had created an adversarial atmosphere that antagonized many members of the committee who, like me, were exhausted. The discussion was heated, and some members wanted to have a vote of confidence in the president before even considering his proposals. After the recess, Ted Olson, whom many saw as a confidant of the president and who did believe that the JCOA was about to carry out a

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palace revolution and reduce ‘the Presidency to something like a constitutional monarchy,‘ took charge He presented an omnibus amendment to our resolution, the authorship probably shared with Robertson. The introductory paragraph was critical: ‘Pre-eminent in the process of co-ordinating and implementing the work initiated by the Joint Committee, to be further developed by the whole University, is the office of the President, who also must assume final responsibility for the preparation of the budget. In order to aid the administration and the Senate in these tasks, the joint committee recommends: that there be established a Co-ordinating Committee which would have three main functions.’ Much of the remaining document was a rewrite of our text, with frequent references to presidential authority and responsibility. After some ‘desultory’ debate, the amendment was carried by a vote of five to two – I abstained, as did ten or twelve others. However, Robertson ruled that the 5–2 vote constituted sufficient approval for the amendment to be a recommendation from the JCOA to senate. His ruling was challenged but was upheld on a six-to-three vote. As Bill Farr wrote in the minutes: ‘The meeting, and the Committee, then adjourned for good.’ Senate met the next day, 13 December at 4:30, with almost full attendance. The report of the JCOA had been circulated, but Robertson underlined some of the highlights and suggested that a thorough discussion be held at a special senate meeting. Slater then read a lengthy statement thanking the JCOA for all its commendable work and promising full cooperation with the proposed coordinating committee. ‘I readily acknowledge that the University has found itself in difficulties in the last year and that I share in the responsibilities for those difficulties,’ he stated. ‘But I am optimistic that we have found the course that will solve the difficulties and serve the University more effectively in the future.’ Senate then turned to a discussion of the report. I tried to answer some of the questions, but the other deans remained strangely silent. Michael Creal finally moved that we postpone detailed discussion of the report and turn to the proposed mechanism for carrying on the work of the JCOA. Don Warwick, seconded by Creal, two of the president’s ‘loyal’ senators, moved that there be a committee of five, three elected by senate and two appointed by the president, with the president ex officio. Answering a question about the absence of deans, Creal pointed out that it was to be a University Committee and all members ‘be they

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deans or otherwise’ would be representing the university and not ‘local interests.’ He added that ‘it seemed imperative to him that the membership should include members of sub-committee # 3 because of their experience in these matters and that the inclusion of a Dean or two might be essential to the success of the Committee.’ During the lengthy debate that followed, only Harry Crowe, among the deans, spoke to ask ‘whether his understanding was correct that the vote on the recommendation by the Joint Committee at its meeting last night was 5–2 with 12 abstentions and, if so, whether this had any relationship to the motion being considered.’ His intention was obvious, but no one on the JCOA wished to revisit that issue. Robertson declared that on the basis of the previous night’s discussions he felt free to bring the motion to senate. In the end the Warwick-Creal motion passed – but only 45 of the 194 senators who had signed in voted for the motion, and all but one or two of the old JCOA abstained. A weary senate adjourned. Robert MacIntosh had been out of town after the board meeting of 11 December but had kept in touch with the president. He insisted that Slater reassert his authority and make certain it was recognized in any successor committee to the JCOA. Although the senate had accepted that position in passing the Olson text on 13 December, MacIntosh concluded, on whose advice I don’t know, that relations between the deans and the president had become worse in the previous few days. He called an emergency meeting at the Bank of Nova Scotia on the afternoon of 14 December, the attendees consisting of the board executive, vice-presidents Parkes and Small, John Yolton (a senate member of the board), Howard Robertson, Ted Olson, Al Tucker (principal of Glendon), and deans Arthurs, Carrothers, Crowe, Overing (education), Richman, and myself. Responding to a question, I remember describing the situation at York as having become intolerable over the past week and that I had offered to submit my resignation. Richman wrote that ‘all but one of the Deans present indicated that it would be best for Slater to resign or be removed from office as soon as possible.’ This recollection, while accurate, exaggerates the directness of the criticism. Ted Olson remembers that ‘whether people were for or against, what I remember is tiredness and guardedness. At the end of the thing, I did not believe there was much support for David to be discerned. But this was no lynch mob either.’ Olson, however, was one of the few who stated ‘I don’t think we have any choice but to stay with what

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we’ve got.’ Harry Crowe did not speak. As Al Tucker later wrote me, ‘for some reason a specific image remains with me from that meeting – of most of the deans having taken their seats, when Harry appeared and slowly walked along and down the oval table, behind us to sit on the other side, towards the far end, where he could observe from a position that made him singular, a little separate from the rest of us and I can’t remember him speaking at all.’ Although several of the deans tried to be as politely neutral as possible, Tucker told John Adams of the Globe and Mail (22 December) that ‘it was apparent as the Deans spoke one by one that Slater no longer had any support. The consensus was evident and the only question was how and when the Board would act.’ That consensus may not have been shared by Olson, Parkes, and Small; indeed, Olson recalled that he had opposed the meeting ‘to grease the skids under David – a matter with which I disagreed and said so.’ However, the board seemed to accept or agree with the consensus, and several members suggested that a time frame of thirty to sixty days might be necessary to find a successor. Others, apparently including MacIntosh, felt it would be less messy to wait until the end of the academic year. Meanwhile on campus, members from all faculties, including those who had been members of Slater’s advisory group, held a meeting on the night of 14 December. The group was strongly of the opinion that, whatever Slater’s shortcomings, his dismissal or forced resignation would accomplish nothing and would throw the university further into turmoil. A delegation of five senior senators met with MacIntosh the next morning to inform him of their view that Slater should remain in office, at least for the time being, and to urge him, as one told me, to ‘cool it.’ The president had been told of the meeting at the bank – which he later described as an act of treachery by MacIntosh – but he met MacIntosh and the board executive on the afternoon of 15 December and again on the 16th. He stated that, despite the apparent consensus of the deans, he had the support of senate and should remain in office. There the matter seems to have rested for the moment. The Toronto Star (16 December) reported that Slater was not resigning and quoted a board member, who asked not to be identified, that ‘there was no pressure either from the board or from the faculty-dominated Senate for President Slater to resign.’ On the morning of 15 December I had met with the chairs of the departments in my faculty. I attempted as best I could to recount the events of the past few weeks and informed them of my letter of

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12 December to Slater, which I believed should be regarded as final. In a long letter written after the meeting, Don Warwick, chair of sociology and one of Slater’s informal advisory council, wrote me that the rumours that I was to be fired were ‘totally inconsistent with [Slater’s] position expressed to several of us on both Tuesday and before Senate on Wednesday.’ On both occasions, he wrote, Slater’s position essentially was that ‘we’ve got to get Saywell into this as the main link with the Joint Committee on Alternatives.’ On Wednesday, after we had discussed the possibility of committee comprising three elected and two appointed members, Slater’s position was again: ‘If Saywell isn’t elected, I will appoint him.’ Warwick’s letter was a powerful appeal to me not to resign, but to remain and ‘patch up’ my relations with the president: This is a personal appeal for you to withdraw your resignation and stay on as Dean until the end of your term. Your account of the frustrations and battles of the past few weeks and days was, as always, lucid and compelling, and I can certainly understand your decision to resign. Nevertheless, for many reasons I and the other chairmen who met on Friday feel you should stay on ... You must know that the personal loyalty of your chairmen to you is extraordinarily high; thus the sense of depression at your announcement on Friday. More important than my own feelings of admiration and respect for you is a concern about what your resignation, whole or partial, would do to York. The publicity question, to which you alluded, is bad enough. But I am also concerned about the vacuum that would be created if you step out. It was quite clear to all of us that you were and are the only administrator in this university who had an overall sense of what is going on and can help to pull the place together. The President, as you well know, cannot do this. And if he is thrown out, there will be only that many more problems to solve, and even less chance of solving them. My hope is that you somehow can be persuaded not only to stay on as Dean, but to take on the role of leadership for which you are so well equipped. Whether this is as Provost or a member of the new Joint Committee I don’t know.

Before leaving for a holiday in California, Barry Richman had also met his faculty council. Despite his lack of confidence in Slater, he stated that he was not resigning, because he believed that the board would act to resolve the problems with the president. However the board’s apparent refusal to force a resignation led him to wire his res-

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ignation to MacIntosh on 18 December and send a letter to his faculty, which he wanted read in senate on 19 December. In his letter Richman stated: ‘Many crucial events have happened since our Faculty Meeting on December 15th, 1972, especially with regard to President Slater and his desire to stay in power as long as possible regardless of the costs and damage to the University. Because of my own principles and strong convictions I have no other alternative than to resign as Dean effective January 18, the day after our Advisory Council meeting.’ Despite MacIntosh’s appeal to him to withdraw his resignation or at least not to make the row public, Richman refused. Meanwhile, MacIntosh and presumably other members of the board had finally concluded that Slater had to go. On 18 and 19 December an intermediary, James Lewtas, a board member, met Slater several times, and he apparently agreed to resign at the end of the academic year. But early in January, MacIntosh got a letter from Slater stating that he had been terribly misunderstood, that he had no intention of resigning, that all the problems had been resolved and the situation was stabilized. When he returned to campus, the president acted as if nothing had happened: it was clear he intended to remain in office. On 12 January he informed his senior policy committee that MacIntosh had agreed to a special board meeting on 29 January to consider the first draft budget proposals. On 18 January he met with the board committee on appointments and discussed the termination of contractually limited faculty. ‘Unfortunately because you were ill,’ he wrote MacIntosh on 19 January, ‘you were not able to attend’ but he hoped to be able to report on the ‘financial aspects of the decision,’ early in the next week. At some point before that time, MacIntosh and the executive committee finally decided to force the president’s resignation. Perhaps they were reassured when many of the same senators who had opposed his resignation on 15 December told MacIntosh they had changed their minds when it became clear he intended to remain. MacIntosh instructed Ian Douglas, counsel for the university, to draw up the terms of Slater’s resignation to take effect 30 June with sabbatical leave for the remainder of the academic year. And, in his letter of resignation, David wrote ‘In my view, acceptance of this request is in the best interests of the University. The position of President entails dealing with numerous groups and bodies within and outside the University and I do not believe that I can effectively serve the needs of the University to my own standards in the present circumstances.’

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The board met on 24 January and accepted the resignation. MacIntosh then pointed out that an acting president should be appointed immediately, a person who was widely respected, was not a dean, and presumably would not be a candidate for the permanent job. (Despite the assertion that the acting president should not be a dean, there was a reliable report that Harry Arthurs had been offered and declined the appointment both before and after Storr.) Such a person, MacIntosh had concluded, was Richard Storr, a professor of history with whom he had worked on the committee on university governance. To provide important administrative direction and support, he also recommended that Bill Farr be made vice-president effective at once. After the board meeting, MacIntosh met with many of us to make the announcement. Privately I doubted the wisdom of the choice for, although Storr had many abilities, executive leadership was not among them. During the meeting, many agreed with Sydney Eisen when he suggested that John Yolton might be a more appropriate choice. When the next day, on his doctor’s advice, Storr said he could not accept the position, MacIntosh immediately called Yolton, who said he would be prepared to act. On 24 January the board officially appointed York’s third president in as many days. The six weeks from early December had been had been a tragedy for David Slater, a period, he told me years later, of which he had little recollection, although the secret meeting at the Bank of Nova Scotia on 14 December was seared into his memory as ‘treachery.’ In my view, he had misconstrued the recommendations of the JCOA on 11 December as an attempt to take over the presidential authority that he, with MacIntosh’s and others’ urging, was determined to regain. In fact, the proposed committee, as we tried to tell him, was similar to the position he had asked me to undertake in November. In all this, he was badly advised by the group of what he saw as ‘loyal’ senators, none of whom had been following the developing crisis from the inside. What surprised me – even angered me – when I read Warwick’s letter was that none of the ‘loyal’ senators, most of whom were my friends and chairs, had talked to me either to determine our intentions or to warn me of the position they were advising David Slater should take. The sad result was that the career at York of one of the best-intentioned and most decent men I have ever worked with came to a tragic end. In spite of the turbulence of the previous months, the JCOA had done much to assure a reasonably soft landing in 1973. It had estab-

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lished general parameters for 1973–74 enrolment and income that proved to be reasonably accurate. It had sufficiently softened the hardline position of MacIntosh and other members of the board that they were prepared to accept a 1973–74 deficit if there were evidence that the university could move towards a more balanced budget in 1974–75. The JCOA had also suggested that a basic study of the administration, academic support and ancillary services, and physical plant should be undertaken to improve efficiency and reduce costs. The committee had taken the first steps towards collecting the data that might be used for a more rational formula for allocating faculty budgets. President Yolton and the new Coordinating Committee (CC) generally followed the paths outlined by the JCOA. Yolton, the chair of philosophy, was a wise and cautious man, in no way intimidated by the board, the faculty, or the faculty association. The elected members of the committee were Michael Creal of arts, who became chair; David McQueen, a Glendon economist; and John Buttrick, an economist in the Faculty of Arts. Yolton appointed John Goodings of science and Warren Grover of law to the committee. But the real administrative and financial expertise behind the committee was William Farr. He received his undergraduate degree in math from York in 1965 and an MA in English from Toronto in 1967. He had joined the central administration in 1967, was secretary of the senate from 1968 to 1970, and then secretary of the university (board of governors) until 1972, when MacIntosh wisely appointed him vice-president. He remained the key figure in the administration until his retirement in 1992. An extremely capable man, he and seemed to look upon the inmates of the academic playpen with detachment if not disdain. He saw his task as providing the CC and the university with facts and analyses that were accurate and judicious. In its first report to Senate on 26 April, the CC provided estimates of income and expenditure for 1973–75. ‘The recent announcements by the Provincial Government of funding arrangements for the university in the 1973–74 session,’ they stated, ‘combined with some improvement in the enrolment picture for 1972–73 session at York, give grounds for cautious optimism. We do not appear to be in a crisis situation, although it would be foolish to pretend that we are not in an austerity situation, and our policies and process over the next several months should assume that fact as a central point of reference.’ The CC

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had established many of the task forces suggested by the JCOA, but its major concern was the absence of a rational approach to budgeting. It suggested an internal formula generally related to faculty workload and discretionary grants to provide for flexibility, innovation, and a rapid response to new circumstances. To begin the process the committee recommended the creation of a university budget committee of the president, senators, and members of the board. At that same senate meeting, Professor Richard Storr reported for the University Study Committee on Governance and Administration, of which MacIntosh was chair. Emphasizing the importance of a rational approach to budgeting, Storr introduced a motion for the creation of a budget committee comprising the president and members of senate and board. But after a long debate, a successful Warwick-Crowe amendment removed members of the board from the proposed committee. As MacIntosh later reported to the board, his attempt to be part of the budget planning process had failed. In the end the CC recommended and senate accepted a new senate budget committee comprising the president and vice-president, elected and appointed senators, and two students. Senate elected Michael Creal, David McQueen, and Robert Hobson of science. Yolton appointed Grover and Rajagopal of Atkinson. By early May, Farr and Yolton were ready to present more or less definitive budget figures to the board. For 1973–74 they proposed a deficit of $300,000 before salary increases. In president’s council on 1 February, I had said that, if the university gave a 4 per cent salary increase to faculty without allowing a major increase in the deficit, I would have to terminate $500,000 worth of faculty. However, YUFA refused to consider a wage freeze, and the board accepted Yolton’s recommendation of a 4½ per cent increase, which added $1 million to the deficit. With the 1972–73 deficit of $860,000, the projected deficit for 1973–74, and the salary increases, York would have deficit of $2,250,000 by the end of April 1974. As Farr said in a memo to Yolton and the board, $1.5 million would have to be taken out of the 1974–75 budget below 1973–74 expenditures in order to have a break even budget in 1974–75. ‘I believe we should operate on the assumption that such an extraction is necessary, and commence on ways and means immediately.’ Farr’s warning was repeated in the CC’s report to senate on 28 June, which stated that even meeting enrolment projections and assuming an increase of 5 per cent in the BIU, neither of which was

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assured, would result in the generation of 1974–75 revenue in excess of 1973–74 expenses. The determination of the 1974–75 budget ‘is going to require a great many difficult and painful decisions as the University sets about extricating itself from its deficit position in an orderly way.’ The future promised to be bleak, but York had moved a long way from David Slater’s ‘qualified view of certain possibilities’ and MacIntosh’s dictatorial resolution in October.

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Reflections: Then and Now

The Faculty of Arts had accomplished a great deal in the ten years after 1963. We had taken more than our share of York’s mandated target of 7,000 undergraduates. We had designed and implemented an entire undergraduate curriculum. We created the Faculty of Education and played a key role in the establishment of the Faculty of Fine Arts. We had been able to recruit enough ‘someones’ to maintain an acceptable faculty–student ratio. At the same time, we had begun graduate programs that in a number of disciplines had already earned a national reputation. By 1970 we had been able for the first time to turn our attention to questions of the quality of our student body and of our own performance as scholar-teachers. We planned to limit the number of students until we had improved the quality of the entering class. On the agenda as well was an examination of the quality of our performance – the structure of the curriculum, the possible streaming of students, and the quality of our teaching. So too was my concern about how we might achieve an appropriate balance in a joint-product university of the twin obligations to communicate and to advance knowledge – that is, to teach as well as to engage in scholarly research and publication, a responsibility that was not, in either conviction or commitment, equally shared by all members of the faculty. All of these issues were on our agenda when in 1972–73 external pressures forced us to fight for survival rather than plan for the future. But sooner or later these issues would have to be addressed. And York suffered more than most universities because the dreariness of its natural and built landscape had a deadening on students and faculty alike. But on that account we could do little but complain about the quality of life on campus.

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When I retired as dean in the spring of 1973, I vowed never again to sit in senate, council or committees. At the request of the Canadian International Development Agency, I agreed to revive a moribund aid project in Kenya, which York had undertaken in 1968. Until 1979 I spent the summer and fall at York, writing and teaching, and the winter in Nairobi directing the economic-planning project in the Ministry of Finance. I also tried to recruit suitable Kenyan university graduates to do graduate degrees at York and ultimately replace the fifteen economists and planners I had assembled in Nairobi. From 1979 to 1981, I lived in Japan, where I was loosely attached to the embassy, held visiting professorial appointments at three universities, spoke at dozens of others, and, with the ambassador’s approval, was Tokyo correspondent for CTV. After returning to York, I spent weeks or months every year in Japan as a visiting professor or consulting for the Ontario and Canadian governments. Soon after my return in 1981, Dean Harold Kaplan asked me to find some way to increase the visibility of York faculty on television. I was able to persuade TV Ontario to run a weekly half-hour talk show, Options, which I hosted with York faculty and others as guests. President Harry Arthurs persuaded me to sit on yet another commission to see what could be done with the colleges. Although I favoured abolition, with a separation of academic offices and residences, we halfheartedly recommended that each college find a social or cultural focus that would give it some sense of identity. Finally, in 1987 I was asked to try to resolve some problems in the graduate program in history. I agreed to become the director for one year but stayed for ten of the most enjoyable years of my academic life – teaching, working with the students, and finishing my book on Mitch Hepburn. I retired in 1998 to write The Lawmakers, which grew out of my undergraduate course on law and the constitution. In retrospect, it seems strange now that for a quarter of a century after 1973, although I had been at and around York, I remained remote from the university as a whole. It was only when I began this memoir a few years ago that I realized the university was not the cloistered institution I had joined in 1954 nor was either the Faculty of Arts or York the same institution I had left as dean. I had slept through a second transformation of the Ontario university system. York and other large universities had become similar to billion dollar corporations. They had acquired the same centralized bureaucratic

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and managerial structures, the same systems for strategic planning, budget rationalization, risk management, and marketing and media communication. Yet the role of the university as corporation remained as it always had: the communication and advancement of knowledge. Nevertheless, at York Ltd., behind the striking facades of countless new buildings, the remarkable change of the natural landscape, and the presence of more students than I could ever have imagined, there were many signs of an academic institution in trouble. In this, York was not alone. The faculty–student ratio, often taken as a measure of educational quality, would have been both unbelievable and unacceptable a generation earlier. Students faced a two-tiered or segmented labour force in the classrooms and lecture halls, where much of teaching was done by poorly paid part-time and contract teachers, while the regular faculty pressed for lower and lower teaching loads in the interests of their research (although without some form of monitoring ‘research’ too often means only less time in the classroom). Emerging at the same time was a twotiered system among the universities – between those claiming to be ‘research-intensive’ universities and those that aspired to the same status. Although all mission statements underlined the importance of excellence in undergraduate teaching and research, teaching excellence seemed to be taken for granted while the designation of ‘research intensive’ had to be earned and demonstrated and was a more actively pursued objective. The cause of these – and other – ills was what the universities liked to call ‘underfunding.’ Government (and others) viewed the problem from the perspective of conflicting and growing demands on the public purse, of which the escalating cost of university education was not the most pressing component. Before the 1960s the province had paid about a third of university operating costs, but during that decade universal accessibility to university education had become a public good to be funded by the state. By the early 1970s government support had risen to about 75 per cent. Although at the time we did not view ‘underfunding’ as anything more than a short-term budgetary expedient during a recession, the truth was that the public-good model was quickly collapsing under the inability of the state to afford it. As William Davis stated in 1969, ‘We have reached the end of the line. We cannot afford to increase by any significant degree the amounts being directed to universities in future years.’ Given that realization, the state and the universities should have

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developed a coherent policy or direction for the system as a whole. But perhaps out of respect for university autonomy, or perhaps because neither the state nor the universities collectively had any policy for a rationalization of the system, no policy decisions were made. The government simply forced universities to cut costs by cutting grants and reducing university budgets as a percentage of provincial expenditure. From 75 per cent in the mid-1970s, grant support had fallen to 41 per cent by 1996. In his 1990 inaugural address as president of the University of Toronto, Robert Pritchard warned that ‘the plight of our universities is desperate ... Our universities have been progressively ravaged for the last twenty years. We have reached the point where quality is more than suffering – it is being lost.’ But the ravaging continued – through Bob Rae’s Social Contract and the first iteration of Mike Harris’s Common Sense Revolution – before common sense finally prevailed. Operating grants per student decreased 34 per cent in the 1990s, and Ontario ranked last among the provinces in its support for university education. Beginning in the early years of this century, financial support began to improve dramatically but not necessarily permanently. Even the Reaching Higher plan of 2005 – in which the government committed an additional $2 billion to universities over five years – would not cover escalating enrolments, let alone undo the damage that had been done. Students were among the first to feel the results of ‘underfunding.’ Beginning in the 1980s tuition began to be deregulated without penalty to the universities. As government grants decreased by 30 per cent between 1987 and 2005, tuition tripled. By 2005 tuition was almost half of fee and grant income. At York, for example, arts tuition increased 48 per cent between 1996 and 2006 and in 2007 was about the provincial average for arts students of $5,300. The public-good model had disappeared: higher education was accepted as a subset of economic policy rather than the core of either a social or an educational policy. Students also felt the results in the classroom as faculty–student ratios deteriorated rapidly. The government would likely not have permitted universities to limit enrolment – we were not in 1968. But in tying grants to enrolment, the government in effect forced the system to remain enrolment driven as it had been in the 1960s. But even increases in tuition could not compensate for declining grants. The result was a continuing deterioration in the faculty–student ratio,

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which fell from 1:14 full-time faculty in arts at York in the early 1970s to about 1:33 in 2006 (or about 1:22 if all the part-time and contract teachers were included). York was not alone. The Council of Ontario Universities estimated that the provincial ratio of full-time faculty to full-time students increased from 1:19.6 to 1:24.9 from 1998 to 2004. In his 2006 presidential address to the Canadian Political Science Association, Professor Kim Nossal estimated that to bring the ratio in Canada back to the level of the mid-1970s would require 59,000 faculty rather than the 2006 figure of 32,000, at a cost of some $2.5 billion above 2006 expenditures of $2.9 billion. An unlikely scenario. Without denigrating in any way the ability or performance of parttime or contract teachers – indeed they may be far more committed to teaching than the ‘regular’ faculty – the creation of a dual work force in the academy was unfortunate. In an earlier era I had mused about a slightly different division of research and teaching labour among some faculty, and today some universities apparently are experimenting with the creation of a category of ‘teaching’ professors for those faculty who are not expected to do research. But the creation of two labour forces – a regular faculty and a working underclass – was the unfortunate product of financial necessity, not of thought. Universities simply could not afford to teach the increasing number of students from the mid-1970s with regular faculty. The arithmetic is straightforward: assuming a teaching load of 2.5 courses a week for two terms and with an average salary of $95,000 or more, the cost per course with faculty is $38,000. Part-time teachers in the Faculty of Arts are paid $13,000 for one course, and they are the best-paid in Ontario. Part-time instructors in arts teach 518.86 courses, which would cost about $12,000,000 more if taught by regular faculty. The pattern in the Faculty of Arts at York is probably not atypical. In 1973 about 500 full-time and 68 part-time or contract faculty, with the latter accounting for probably 2 or 3 per cent of the salary budget. By 1991, when 16,000 undergraduates were enrolled, the budgetary distribution was $35 million and $15 million for part-time faculty. The ratio has improved in the past few years, but even with the additional money in 2005–06 for new hires, only 21 per cent of the 97 net appointments at York were tenure stream. In 2006 in arts, of the bewildering variety of teachers for the 17,500 undergraduates and more than 3,000 graduate students, only 517 are tenure-stream faculty. I estimate that 40 per cent of undergraduate instruction is done by part-time and contract labour. (At the University of Calgary, which has a much smaller

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Faculty of Arts, the corresponding figure is 22 per cent). For Ontario probably about one-fifth of the total faculty complement are part-time full-time equivalents. The Faculty of Arts was always very much concerned about the quality of students. On the surface, quality would no longer appear to be a concern. It must be a joy to teach in Ontario universities today. The number of Ontario scholars with an A average graduating from secondary schools increased from 3 to 30 per cent between 1966 and 1996. The entering average in many universities is now well over 80 per cent – an increase from 76 in 1985, and few have an average of less than 78. In York arts the average is 80. Either the quality of students or instruction in the secondary schools has improved remarkably or there is incredible grade inflation. It was not surprising that in 1999 the Council of Ontario Universities called for a study to examine the possibility of introducing secondary school exit exams to establish some common standards. Such exams will probably never be introduced because the cost would be enormous. Other provinces have noted grade inflation in Ontario. The University of Alberta has stated that an Ontario average of 87 is equal to an Alberta average of 80, and McGill states that Ontario graduates must have an average over 92 per cent to apply for scholarships. At York, we found initially that grading within the Faculty of Arts tended to mirror the secondary school inflation, and we attempted to counter it. Without a solid body of research, it is impossible to determine the situation today. One minor study of seven universities found that from 1973 to 1993 grade inflation was statistically significant in 70 per cent of first-year arts courses. But there seems to be no study that demonstrates whether university grades have followed or countered secondary school grade inflation. In the United States grade inflation within the universities has become a matter of public and academic attention. Harvard was scandalized when it was found that more than two-thirds of the students in humanities departments got A’s and the ‘gentleman C’ had become at least a B+. After years of gentle persuasion aimed at getting grades under control, the Princeton faculty in 2004 agreed to a maximum of 35 per cent A’s in all but senior courses. The next year, after the number of A’s had fallen from 48 to 41 per cent, the dean remarked that ‘after so many years of grade inflation we have actually been able to move the needle in another direction.’ A major study of twenty-nine broadly chosen American universities revealed that from 1967 to 2002 grade inflation had increased by

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15 per cent in each decade. It is unlikely that York was not influenced by whatever socio-cultural factors may have been responsible for such a phenomenon. I remain perplexed by the difficulty in finding an appropriate balance between research and teaching in the modern joint-product university where each is assumed and expected. I had always believed that the choice of an academic career was a decision to do both, but that illusion vanished even before I went to York. My aspiration nonetheless was that York should be a ‘research active’ institution where researchbased scholarship was encouraged, valued, and rewarded at every level and in every discipline. I did not believe that a nine-hour weekly teaching load for twenty-six weeks was – or should be – an obstacle to good research. What seems to be emerging today is the notion of a two-tier university system: the ‘research-intensive’ universities and the others. In 1985, the Bovey Report identified the ‘G5’ major research universities in Ontario. In Canada today there is a self-designated ‘G13.’ Their ambitions are, as Toronto described its own objective, to be the Berkeleys or the Ann Arbors – the two most highly rated public universities in the U.S. – of the north. That objective is now explicitly supported by federal and Ontario funding agencies, which direct the bulk of funding to what are already the most successful research universities. From 1999 to 2004, ten universities – led by McGill, Toronto, UBC, and Alberta – received 70 per cent of the growth in research income. Moreover, funding seems to be less to support curiosity-driven research than commercially promising projects that could or do involve close ties with the private sector. In their ambition to be a ‘research intensive’ university, many have reduced faculty teaching loads. What at one time might have been 3–3 (three courses a term or nine hours a week) is now 3–2 or 2–2 or 2–1, or nothing with a release-time stipend. Tenure is often determined by success in bringing a research grant to the university. To cite Nossal again, between 1999 and 2004 the research income per full-time faculty member had increased from $69,000 to $154,000, and universities received $5 billion in research grants and contracts, or approximately 25 per cent of their revenue. Federal grants and contracts to Ontario universities increased from $230,000 in 1987 to $950,000 in 2005. Obviously, Canada should have some great research-intensive universities. Just as obvious is the fact that Canada can sustain relatively

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few capable of joining the club of fifty in the United States. The danger lies in the aspirations of the many to be one of the few. York is a good example. York is overwhelmingly a humanities and social sciences university including the faculties of business and law. It does not have a medical faculty, large engineering faculties, or large departments of pure and applied science, all areas that attract major research support. McGill’s research income grew by $345 million between 1999 and 2004, York’s by $23 million. Nevertheless, York’s official plan in 2005 stated that ‘excellence in research is central to York university’s mission ... However, in order to reach the pinnacle as one of Canada’s preeminent research universities, it is essential that we make the crucial decisions necessary to transform York into a more research intensive university.’ Lower teaching loads will follow as surely as night follows day. All faculty in the chosen few and most in the aspiring many will want to participate in what Jacques Barzun lamented in 1968 as ‘the flight from the classroom.’ During the past two decades there has been an intense debate among and within the great American research universities about the effect the intensive competitive research pressure within and among them has on the quality of undergraduate education. There has been little such debate in Canada, although Pocklington and Tupper, political scientists at Alberta – one of the G13 – in No Place to Learn (2002), have insisted that in the name of research undergraduate education has been seriously undervalued: thus the title of their book. Their position, though slightly less hyperbolic, is similar to that of Charles Syke of the Hoover Institute in his book Profscam (1988) that faculty have ‘abandoned their teaching responsibilities’ and ‘in pursuit of their own self-interest ... have left the nation’s students in the care of an illtrained, ill-paid and bitter underclass.’ Faculty have turned the universities into ‘vast factories of junk think ... belaboring the tiny slivers of knowledge, utterly without redeeming social value except as items on their resumes.’ Syke’s screed may be dismissed as just that, but his opinions are shared by many both outside and inside the academy. One of the most thoughtful and eloquent of the participants in the American debate is Donald Kennedy, president emeritus of Stanford University. In Academic Duty (1997), he writes: The commanding feature of this process of redesigning the university will be the reclamation of its central mission. It is, after all, society’s agent for cultural transmission and cultural change. It works by the thoughtful,

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participatory transfer of knowledge and excitement from one generation to the next. Accordingly, its improvement must entail putting students and their needs first. Once this has been done the rest falls into place: the complex challenges posed by intellectual property disputes, the tension between teaching and research, the ethical problems of student–faculty relations, professional misconduct issues, the need for creative thinking about our undergraduate program – indeed all the manifold difficulties so prominent in our growing mistrust of our academic institutions. Placing students first is a simple design principle, but it has great power.

It is a powerful conclusion to a classic in higher education, the chapters titles of which reveal the range and the depth of his understanding of the many roles of the university and its faculty: Academic Freedom, Academic Duty, Preparing, To Teach, To Mentor, To Serve the University, To Discover, To Publish, To Tell the Truth, To Reach Beyond the Walls, and To Change. No one has ever said it better. Perhaps it is too late to think of fundamentally or even marginally reconfiguring the Ontario university system; indeed, it is a misnomer to call it a system. Yet fundamental change may be the only solution. Having swallowed the double cohort, Ontario is still facing a continuing explosion in university enrolment. As in the 1960s that explosion has been underestimated. In 2005, the government estimated that there would be an increased enrolment in 2006 of 60,000: in fact it was 74,000. In 2009 there will likely be 46,000 more students than those projected by the Reaching Higher expectations. Within three years, upwards of 420,000 – and perhaps many more – students will be pursuing a university education in the province because of the rapid growth of the universityage population and the accelerating participation rate. As in the 1960s the province again seems willing to part with some money, but in return it wants the universities to enter into Multi-Year Accountability Agreements ‘confirming their willingness to comply with the government’s objectives of increasing access and improving quality and accountability.’ University planners are working overtime to write mission statements that convey total compliance and indicate the road it plans to follow. But there is no indication that the government will erect Stop, Go, or Detour signs along any of those roads. As in the 1960s we are again facing the problem of an acute shortage of faculty. Independent surveys in 2001 agreed that by 2010 Ontario

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would need as many as 15,000 additional faculty: 4,500 to meet increased enrolment; 5,400 to 7,400 to cover retirements of the faculty hired during the earlier boom period; and 3,100 to improve the faculty–student ratio. The Council of Ontario Universities estimated that the total Canadian supply of new faculty is 4,400, yet in 2005–06 only 624 new faculty were appointed in Ontario, and of these only 35 per cent were permanent tenure-stream appointments. Fifteen thousand seems a long way to go. Well could David Smith, late principal of Queen’s, ask in the title of his 2000 report, ‘Will there be enough excellent profs?’ And if so, I would add, can they be afforded? The answer to each question is No. As dean I fought any suggestion that York should not get into serious science or develop graduate programs. I never imagined that today I would write that we must have the courage to speak the simple truth that mass higher education is not affordable without institutional differentiation in level and substance and, though this may sound like trahison des clercs, of faculty and faculty salaries. Some have had the courage to speak out. No one has had the will or the courage to act. History may not repeat itself, but it does seem to go around in circles – at least that is the way I see it on 3 April 2007.

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A Note on Sources

This study relies heavily on the official records of York University. As a rule the context makes clear the sources of the information (e.g., ‘senate on 12 December’). The following major record collections were used: presidential papers, vice-presidential papers (finance and student affairs), senate and its committees, the Faculty of Arts council and its committees, and selected records of the board of governors. All are held in the York University Archives and Special Collections. However, the most complete records of the Faculty of Arts council is held in the office of the dean of arts. Material from other collections and from private papers are included in the notes on each chapter below. Although Murray Ross’s memoir of York – The Way Must Be Tried: Memoirs of a University Man (Stoddart, 1992) – covers much the same period as I do, our accounts often differ in tone and substance. The best survey of universities during this period is Paul Axelrod, Scholars and Dollars: Politics, Economics and the Universities of Ontario, 1945–1980 (University of Toronto Press, 1982) The names of those of my colleagues with whom I have had discussions or correspondence are listed for each chapter and at the end of this section. Chapter 2 is based largely on official records, including the records of the initial Organizing Committee of York University and some of its members. The following helpful sources were consulted: Paul Axelrod, ‘Businessmen and the Building of Canadian Universities: A Case Study,’ Canadian Historical Review (June 1982); Claude Bissell, Halfway Up Parnassus: A Personal Account of the University of Toronto, 1932–1971 (University of Toronto Press, 1974). Post-Secondary Education in Ontario,

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1962–1970: Report of the Presidents of the Universities of Ontario to the Advisory Committee on University Affairs, 1963; Murray Ross, The New University (University of Toronto Press, 1961). There is some material in the Paul Axelrod papers and the George Tatham papers at York and the Claude Bissell papers at the University of Toronto Archives. The various planning committees have material on the development of plans for York. The proceedings of the provisional curriculum committee I used courtesy of Lionel Rubinoff and they are now in the York archives. On the Seeley affair I have had informative discussions and correspondence with Mortimer Appley, Douglas Verney, Lionel Rubinoff, and the late Norman Endler. For chapter 3, the Pattullo–Conway correspondence is in the vicepresident (student affairs) papers. at York I am indebted to Pat Pattullo for copies of his aide-mémoir of his conversations with Murray Ross. I am also indebted to him for many discussions and much correspondence. For the Conway story see Jill Kerr Conway, True North: A Memoir (Knopf, 1994). A documentary history of much of the college history is Richard Storr, ‘Serious Conversations: A Documentary Report on the Colleges Founded at Downsview’ (n.d.) which he lent me. Information from two dons at Founders College, John Priestly and James Cutt, was useful. The most recent commission’s report, Strengthening York’s Neighbourhoods, was released in November 2006. In addition to the faculty council records the following sources (all of which are held by the authors) were useful for chapter 4. Hugh Parry and William Whitla, ‘Humanities at York: The Early Year’ (unpublished ms, ca 2000). John Warkentin, ‘History of Geography at York’ (unpublished ms, ca 1999). Theodore Olson, ‘Preliminary Report of Task Group on Size and Functioning of the York First-Year Program in Arts’ (July 1971) and Olson,’ Why General Education and What Style: Notes on a Changing Context,’ in Working Papers on the Evaluation of the First Year Program (April 1970). Information from Ted Olson, Michael Creal, Lionel Rubinoff, John Spencer, Wolfgang Ahrens, Michael Rehner, and Michael Brown. For chapter 5, records of the Committee on University Affairs are in the Archives of Ontario (RG 32). Discussion and/or correspondence with Ramsay Cook, Gabriel Kolko, Michael Lanphier, Anthony Richmond, John O’Neil, Sydney Eisen, Michael Kay, Michael Millgate, John Warkentin, John Yolton, Michael Brown, Michael Creal, Joseph Green, Ken McRoberts, and Clare Thomas.

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In chapter 6 and 7, I wanted to tell York’s story rather than attempt to integrate it with the universal history of the student movement of the 1960s and early 1970s. My major source is the student newspaper Excalibur. A good overview is Doug Owram, Born at the Right Time: A History of the Baby Boom Generation (University of Toronto Press, 1996). Other useful secondary sources generally are Cyril Levitt, Children of Privilege: Student Revolt in the Sixties’ (University of Toronto Press, 1984) and Myrah Kotash, Long Way from Home: The Story of the Sixties Generation in Canada (Lorimer, 1980). On anti-Americanism see Robin Mathews and James Steele, eds., The Struggle for Canadian Universities: A Dossier (New Press, 1969); J.L. Granatstein, Yankee Go Home? Canadians and Anti-Americanism (HarperCollins, 1996); Jeffery Cormier, The Canadianization Movement: Emergence, Survival, and Success (University of Toronto Press, 2004). I am indebted to Cormier for providing me with the partial transcript of my debate with Robin Mathews. The data included in the text are from Select Committee on Economic and Cultural Nationalism – Ontario, Legislative Assembly (3 vols) 1972–75. The activities of the RCMP, to the extent that they have been made available, are described in Steve Hewitt, Spying 101: The RCMP Secret Activities at Canadian Universities, 1917–1997 (University of Toronto Press, 2002). To date I have been unable to secure the release of 180 pages of classified material on me, largely, I suspect, of my work at York as well as numerous visits to the Soviet Union as a guest of the Academy of Sciences. Discussions and/or correspondence with Bernie Frolic, Paul Axelrod, Ross Howard, and Glen Williams. Bob Waller sent me two copyrighted essays on the student movement at Glendon. On chapter 8, in addition to the faculty council and committees, see Theodore Olson, ‘Optimum Size of the Faculty Of Arts’ (commissioned by the dean of arts, 1971) and his ‘The Future of the Faculty of Arts: Survey of Programs and Prospects with Recommendations’ (report to the dean, 1972). I am indebted to Ted Olson for these reports, which are still in his possession. Discussions with Ted Olson, Michael Creal, Paul Axelrod, and Willard Piepenburg. A key source for chapter 9 is the chronicle kept by David Coombs, a student member of the search committee, and his later interviews with Harold Schiff and Michael Creal (Coombs papers, York Archives). Albert Tucker sent me a long memorandum on the work of the committee and the conflict with the board. The outcome is fully and reasonably accurately reported in the press. There were important con-

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versations and/or correspondence with David Coombs, Michael Lanphier, Albert Tucker, Michael Creal, Sydney Eisen, John Priestley, Ross Howard, John King, and Lorn Lind. Much of the material is in presidential papers, senate papers, and board records. For chapter 10, I consulted records of the Ministry of Education (RG2) and minutes of the Committee on University Affairs (RG32) in Archives of Ontario and the Report of the Minister’s Committee on the Teaching of Elementary School Teachers (McLeod Committee, 1966). The establishment of the faculty has spawned two doctoral dissertations at OISE: Lois Thompson, ‘Breaking Away in Teacher Education: The Development of a Concurrent Teacher Education Program at York University 1965–1980’ (1986) and Laura Ford, ‘The Creation of Settings: An Inquiry into the Early Years of the York Faculty of Education’ (1993). The latter consists largely of long extracts from Ford’s interviews with me and Bob Overing. John Ricker, one-time dean of the Faculty of Education at the University of Toronto, assisted me with the critique of teacher training in Ontario. Discussions with Paul Axelrod and several memos have been helpful in comparing the situation then and now. On Glendon in chapter 11, see Radical Mandarin: The Memoirs of Escott Reid (University of Toronto Press, 1989) and Greg Donaghy, ed., Escott Reid: Diplomat and Scholar (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004), which has a chapter on Reid’s Glendon experience. Other than the official records, the most useful resource for chapter 12 were discussions and/or correspondence with my colleagues Vicky Draper, Willard Piepenburg, Don Rickerd, Douglas Verney, Lionel Rubinoff, John Becker, and Robert MacIntosh. The York University Faculty Association kindly gave me permission to look at their records. The material for chapter 13 is to be found almost exclusively in the official university records mentioned above and cited in the text. Some of those mentioned in chapter 14 were also consulted here. See also David Cameron, Declining Enrolments and the Financing of Education in Ontario (Working Paper, Commission on Declining School Enrolments in Ontario, no. 11, 1978). Market Facts of Canada, ‘A Survey Concerning the “Short-Fall” in Student Attendance at Ontario Colleges and Universities’ (Submitted to the Ontario Ministry of Colleges and Universities [ca 1973]). In addition to the obvious official records for chapter 14, see in particular the proceedings and reports of the Joint Committee on Alter-

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natives. Barry Richman, dean of the Faculty of Administrative Studies, wrote an account of the crisis in Leadership, Goals, and Power in High Education (Jossey-Bass, 1974). The book draws in part on his much more detailed letter of resignation to Robert MacIntosh on 26 December, in which he traces events through the month of December 1972. The account here owes much to his letter, of which I have a copy. Many have helped in the reconstruction: Robert MacIntosh, David Slater, Ted Olson, Michael Creal, John Warkentin, John Yolton, Sydney Eisen, Joe Green, Don Warwick, Albert Tucker, and Harry Arthurs. Pertaining to the final chapter, good sources for contemporary information are the publications of the Council of Ontario Universities found on their website. Among the most useful were ‘Briefing Notes 2006–2007’ and ‘Resource Document: University Access, Accountability and Quality in the Reaching Higher Plan’ (2006). See also David Smith’s reports for the COU, ‘How Will I Know If There Is Quality?’ and ‘Will There Be Enough Excellent Profs?’ (2000). I am much indebted to Kim Nossal’s presidential address to the Canadian Political Science Association (2006): ‘A Question of Balance: The Cult of Research Intensity and the Professing of Political Science in Canada.’ The material on grade inflation at Princeton can be found on that university’s website. The study of twenty-nine universities by the Association of American Colleges and Universities can be found at http://grade inflation.com. See also T. Pocklington and A Tupper, No Place to Learn: Why Universities Aren’t Working (UBC Press, 2002). The following people shared information with me, in correspondence and/or conversation (* indicates those who have read part of the manuscript). Wolfgang Ahrens, Mortimer Appley, Harry Arthurs, Paul Axelrod*, John Becker, Michael Brown, Jerome Ch’en, Michael Creal*, Ramsay Cook, David Coombs*, James Cutt, Vicky Drape, Sidney Eisen, the late Norman Endler, Bernie Frolic, Michiel Horn, Ross Howard, Michael Kay, John King, Gabriel Kolko, Nikita Lary, Diana Lary, Michael Lanphier*, Sheldon Levy, Lorn Lind, Robert MacIntosh, Ken McRoberts, Michael Millgate, Ted Olson*, John O’Neil, John Priestley, Anthony Richmond, Don Rickerd, Michael Rehner, Lionel Rubinoff, Daphne Schiff, David Slater, John Spencer, Richard Storr, Clara Thomas, Albert Tucker*, Douglas Verney*, John Warkentin, Glen Williams, John Yolton. John Ricker and Willard Piepenburg, to whom this book is ded-

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icated, read the entire manuscript, Ricker more than once. I would also like to thank the two ‘anonymous’ readers for the press, whom I know to be my friend R.C. Brown, a retired historian from the University of Toronto, and Tom Traves, president of Dalhousie University, but who in days gone by was a doctoral student at York and later occupied the dean’s chair in the Faculty of Arts.

Recto Running Head

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Index

Abella, Irving, 85 Adams, John, 119, 165 Adelman, Howard, 156–7 Administrative Studies, Faculty of, 274 Allan, Albert, 196, 205 Allan, Diogenes, 62 Americanization, 91–111 Appley, Mortimer, 4, 26, 29, 39, 79, 84, 156, 203 Arthurs, Harry, 46, 141, 154, 163, 246, 249, 258, 278 Atkinson College , 255 Axelrod, Paul, 45, 103, 118, 120, 124–7 Bakan, David, 134 Becker, John, 124, 215 Best, Henry, 205, 207, 213, 244 Bissell, Claude, 4, 6–7, 11–14, 78 Bladen, Vincent, 7, 18, 22 board of governors 8, 14, 16–18, 23, 27–9, 69–72, 119, 147–52, 154–68 passim, 215, 216–20, 242–4, 248–76 passim; provisional board of governors, 11–14. See also faculty, salaries; MacIntosh, Robert; Scott, Peter; Winters, Robert

Bohnen, Lynda, 92, 96 Bosher, John, 85 Bosley, John, 165 Bowsfield, Hartwell, 226 Broadbent, Edward, 115 Brown, Michael, 63 budgets and finances, 39–73, 229–47 passim, 249–76 passim, 279ff. See also salaries Buttrick, John, 274 Cantor, Norman, 83 Carol, Hans 4, 79, 197 Carrothers, Gerald, 206, 269 centre for academic writing, 55 chairs (departmental), role of, 78, 224–5 Clark, S.D., 81 Cluett, Robert, 55 college system, 31–48 Conway, John, 35, 36–45, 156–7, 199 Cook, Ramsay, 84, 87, 201, 226 Coombs, David, 149, 162, 164–5 Coons, Wesley, 149, 162, 166 Corry, Alex, 143 Coughlin, Walter, 27 Creal, Michael, 62, 149, 154, 157, 162, 163, 164, 251, 261, 268, 274

294

Index

Crowe, Harry, 152–3, 157, 159, 160, 236–41, 244–5, 248, 249, 250, 254, 255, 262–3, 264, 269, 270 Curtis, Wilfred, 11–14 Davis, William, 104, 107, 126, 136, 138, 140, 172, 178, 228, 237, 240, 375 Deutsch, John, 65–6 Dixon, Brian, 207 Douglas, Ian, 272 Doxey, George, 80, 197 Draper, Vicky, 220–1 Dunton, Davidson, 91 Earl, Rollo, 4, 28, 68 Education, Faculty of, 169–90 Eisen, Sydney, 62–3, 83, 165, 261 Elkin, Fred, 81, 138 enrolment: decline in, 230, 232–3, 235–6, 238, 249; efforts to increase, 256–7; forecasts, 10, 14–18, 65, 67; growth in, 71, 77 Environmental Studies, Faculty of, 206 faculty: forecast of requirements 67; quality 134–7; recruitment, 65–90; shortage, 66–7, 280–1, 285; teaching vs research, 139–45, 283. See also salaries Farquharson, R.F., 17, 19, 114 Farr, William, 168, 268, 274 Faust, Clarence (Ford Foundation), 19–20, 22–4, 51–3 Fowle, David, 80, 192 Frolic, Michael, 126 Gerstein, Bertrand, 148–9, 150, 151, 157, 226, 244

Gillies, James, 149, 150, 151–2, 154, 156–7, 160, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166–8, 205, 209 Glendon College, 198–205 Goodings, John, 274 grade inflation: current concerns, 282; in high schools 130; in the York Faculty of Arts, 132 Graduate Studies, Faculty of, 196–7 Granatstein, Jack, 85, 137 Grant, Douglas, 81 Green, Bryan, 84 Green, Joseph, 85, 210 Haberman, Arthur, 83 Hartle, Douglas, 88 Haynes, Robert, 156 Healey, Dennis, 123, 185 Health, Faculty of (physical education), 195 Heggie, Grace, 226 Heller, Jules, 209, 262 Hoffman, David, 59, 84, 92, 138, 164–5, 261 Horn, Michiel, 85, 250, 261 Howard, Ross, 121, 153 Jansen, Clifford, 84 Jeanneret, Marsh, 7 Johnson, Harry, 87 Joint Committee on Alternatives (JCOA) 246, 248–76 passim Kaplan, Harold, 115, 154, 165, 278 Kay, Michael, 53–4 Kennedy, Donald, 284 Kilbourn, William, 4, 36, 80, 207, 209 King, John, 153 Kolko, Gabriel, 87, 222

Index Koster, Paul, 149 Kuhn, Tillo, 89 Lambert, Allen, 14 Lanphier, Michael, 84, 160 Laskin, Bora, 124, 149, 151, 155–6, 157, 158, 159–60 Law, Faculty of, 206 Layton, Irving, 86 Levy, Sheldon, 221 Little, Pete, 61–3, 152–68 Lovejoy, Paul, 137 Lundell, Robert, 193, 215 MacIntosh, Robert, 215, 237, 242–3, 248–76 passim. See also board of governors; faculty, salaries Macpherson, C.B., 86, 171 Mandel, Eli, 86, 207 Mathews, Robin, 91, 93–5, 100 McCarthy, Jack, 172, 173, 175, 176–8, 179, 180, 181–3, 185–6 McInnes, Edgar, 4, 22, 80, 197 McLean, Ross, 93, 138 McLeod Committee, 172–4, 176, 178 McQueen, David, 241, 255, 258, 260–1, 274–5 McRoberts, Kenneth, 85, 205 Millgate, Michael, 81–2, 173 Modes of Reasoning (courses), 52, 56, 57, 58; student revolt against, 73 Morrison, Neil, 27 Munro, Ross, 96, 155 Nelles, H.V., 85 Nicholls, Ralph, 193 Nossal, Kim, 281, 283 O'Connell, Thomas, 226–7

295

Oliver, Michael, 150–2, 154 Oliver, Peter, 85, 137 Olson, Ted, 132–3, 241, 249, 250, 257, 260, 267–8, 269, 270 Olson, T.K. (Terry), 215, 260 O'Neill, John, 86 Ouellet, Fernand, 85, 201 Overing, Robert, 187–8, 269 Papandreou, Andreas, 88–90 Parkes, Bruce, 235, 240, 269 Pattullo, E.L. 'Pat,' 8, 24, 29, 32–44 Pearson, Lester, 89, 200 Phillips, Eric, 5, 11–14, 16, 17 physical education, 195–6 Piepenburg, Willard, 117, 220–1 Polka, Brayton, 58, 83 Pope, Richard, 21, 138–9 Pounder, Irvine, 21 Preuter, Ken, 171 Priestley, John, 213 Pritchard, Hugh, 194 Presthus, Robert, 86–7 Proctor, John, 14 Rajagopal, Pinayur, 239, 245, 250, 253, 258 Rehner, Michael, 55 Reid, Escott, 8, 200–5 Reid, Timothy, 104 religious studies, 60–3 Richman, Barry, 246, 252–3, 262, 264, 265, 267, 269 Richmond, Anthony, 62, 83 Ricker, John, 70 Robertson, Howard, 248, 255, 259, 260, 261, 263, 264, 266, 268, 269 Rosenberg, Stuart, 61–2 Ross, Murray: college system and, 31, 38–44, 47; early planning for

296

Index

York, 13–14; Escott Reid and Glendon, 200–3; Faculty of Education and, 172–3, 179, 181–5; general education and, 49–53; negotiations with John Saywell, 3, 5, 8; presidency of York, 12–14; relations with John Saywell, 212–15; religious studies and, 61–3; search for a successor for, 147–68; Seeley affair, 24–30; student discipline, 124; University of Toronto–York negotiating committee, 12. See also budgets Rubinoff, Lionel, 19, 213 Russell, Dennis, 29

Spencer, John, 56 Spring, David, 82–3 Steele, James, 92 Storr, Richard, 273–5 students: quality of, 129–34, 282; radicals, 119–27; university governance and, 112–19 Tanenzapp, Sol, 63 Tarnopolosky, Walter, 238, 261 Tatham, George, 4, 19, 24–6, 30, 33 Taylor, Bryce, 195 Tucker, Albert, 149, 162, 164, 166, 204–5, 238, 245, 263, 269–70 Verney, Douglas, 79, 213–14

salaries, 70–3, 142, 216–20, 233–6, 242 Schiff, Harold, 149, 151, 155, 157, 163, 164, 165, 192–5, 213 Schindeler, Fred, 62, 84 Schneider, William, 192 Scott, Peter, 14, 61, 119, 147, 152, 154, 162–8, 181 Science, Faculty of, 192–5 Seeley, John / 'Seeley affair,' 4, 18–19, 24–30 Select Committee on Economic and Cultural Nationalism, 140 Sharp, Mitchell, 89 Slater, David, 45, 70–3, 157–68, 185–7; faculty salaries and, 216–20; relations with John Saywell, 215–16 Small, William, 269 Smith, Dennis, 25, 27

Waller, Bob, 100–1, 121, 123–6 Warkentin, John, 79, 237, 261 Warwick, Donald, 261, 265, 268, 271, 273 Watson, Patrick, 93, 138 Wescott, Mac, 228 White, John, 231 Williams, Glen, 100–1, 104, 115 Winters, Robert, 8, 14, 26–30, 147–8 Woolnough, M., 149 Wright, Douglas, 75, 107 Wrong, Dennis, 81 Yolton, John, 50, 54, 62, 63, 69, 79, 80, 102, 269, 274–83, 367 Zelechow, Bernard, 83 Zingrone, Sylvia, 207