Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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M ASMID 29 As the gong sounds for our first intellectu- al bout, we meet Instructor A — the youthful representative of our categorical division. A well-dressed chap, sporting a newly raised mustache, proudly struts before us. Over- bubbling with enthusiasm and chock-full of confidence, he boldly flaunts his Master ' s deg- ree. Just as Old Glory, caught by the wind, waves its tail end more vigorously than its others parts, just so does he ostentatiously dis- play the degree that he had garnered. He im- mediately lets us feel the iron hand of author- ity by assigning fifty pages in the text for the next day ' s assignment. To strengthen his so recently acquired power, he reads a chap- ter from a standard text book, and literally tears it to pieces, destroying argument after argument with infallible logic. Fortunately we are saved from further abuse at the hand of this tyrant by that well-known toc- sin, so heartily welcomed by fallen boxers and tired students. Assistant Professor B, next on our calling card, is a well-built, iron-jawed Irishman who has served his four-years sentence at Yale. Even yet, how sadly does he gaze at his Phi Beta Kappa pin, mournfully lament- ing the fact that it doesn ' t mean what it used to! A typical middle-aged professor, he has long given up the idea that he will make the average student work, and instead, concen- trates upon his mental faculties with the hope of making him think logically. Forcefully he develops his economic theory in a coherent fashion from the very rock bottom. Vainly he tries to stimulate the gray matter in ir- responsive skulls, only to be met with reson- ant snores — disturbed finally by the sharp ring of the bell announcing the end of the period. The change is welcome for more than one reason. Our inferiority complexes have had dominated us in the presence of these despots, but now we cheerfully regain our composure upon entering the classroom of Professor C — a scholar and a gentleman, whose fifty years of educational service had taught him to en- dure the pangs of teaching with complacency. Unlike his predecessor he had given up the hope of making students either work or think, and had adopted as a modus vivendi a passive lecture method in which he labored diligent- ly — while the students praised his eloquence. This life was soon to come to an abrupt halt. As February ushered in the examina- tion period, all our sources of shelter were in- vaded. The youthful and pretentious instruc- tor bore a sarcastic look that was sure to spell disaster to many an aspiring Phi Beta Kappa man. The Assistant Professor who had so vainly endeavored to put his economics across logically, wore a smile of triumph as he po- litely remarked: Well, you wouldn ' t listen to me, so now you ' ll sweat instead. And even the old professor, our pride and fortress, became a mere scholar — forfeiting the gen- tleman in his title by that look of revenge which demanded retribution for wasted ener- gy during an entire semester. What can we poor students do in the face of such odds? We came back the next day like sheep being led to the slaughter in an at- tempt to pass the exams. Of the thirty ques- tions which I had to answer, every one was of the classification type! At any rate I have gained revenge for the three failures that my report card showed. What else can a poor, downtrodden, puppet- ized student expect?

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28 - M ASMI D The great disadvantage of a novel in this form is, that style, which so powerfully re- flects the individuality of the author, is rela- tively lacking. All we can gather from the book are some of his views: that he aban- doned religion, that he is a social iconoclast. A psychoanalyst might undertake to analyze the character of the author of such an original work, but such activity lies outside of our scope. One cannot help thinking that this form of presenting novels typifies, in some import- ant aspects, our entire age. We are a fast lot and an impatient one. We sweep through the pages of novels, omit descriptions of landscapes and of idyllic life but devour the plot and lose our breath when somebody ' s life is at stake. The talkies are our ideal. There we do not even have to read; scenes from the underworld, from upper society, from the end of the world — stories unreal, bizarre and absurd — are presented to us in a matter-of-fact way and we are pleased. This form of novel, moreover, represents our era from another angle. A story in draw- ing can be understood by people in all parts of the world, irrespective of the language spoken by them. The post-war movement to foster an international spirit is quite in conformity with this form of novel-writing. It is unlikely, however, that this sort of book will in any way advance the cause. In order to sympathize with another nation, one must appreciate its spirit, and this insight into the spirit of another nation cannot be gotten without words, idioms and style: for through them one perceives the subtleties, idiosyncrasies and inner struggles of a people. A speechless book will not do. But is not this very failure characteristic of all the effort expended today on the establishment of uni- versal peace? In our machine-age everybody is trying to wipe out all individual distinctions: our aim is mental equality, standardization of habits, and conformity. In concealing his own char- acter, the author of this book is typical of the age. CLASSIFICATION By Louis Engelberg After many forays into the various centers of canned education in our cultural metro- polis, I have become more and more con- vinced of the hypermechancial nature of our system of learning. Every daily recitation, every weekly quiz is marred by that inevitable query: into how many groups can so and so be divided. ' ' Every final examination con- sists of something like ten classification ques- tions, though once in a while some original instructor may vary the monotony by giving only nine classifications and perhaps one dif- ferentiation. It is to avenge myself upon these many pedagogues for having trans- formed me into a mimicking puppet, a memo- rizer of category and subdivision names, that I am turning the tables — and in a last des- perate rally, hope to gain an everlasting triumph. It is to receive that satisfaction emanating from a task well done that I pro- pose to give the instructor a dose of his own medicine — and classify him! In carrying out my design I shall be as subjective as possible, thus affording myself a protective shelter from the many potential objectors who surround me. I shall thus be able to answer any query by that impregnable reply. Well, that ' s the way it appears to me. For the sake of convenience, moreover. I shall consider you. dear reader, a pal of mine attending classes with me at one of our New York Universities — hoping against hope that we procure a degree of some sort. We may divide all instructors into three classes: The young, the middle aged, and the old: that is. the inexperienced, the disillu- sioned, and those having relaxed into com- plete placidity. But let us leave abstractions and come down to facts.

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30 M ASM ID WINTER THOUGHTS By Abraham S. Guterman The dirty gray of long-lying snow greets the eye, broken here and there by the jagged crest of a lonely rock as it juts out from the mantle of nature, as if definatly refusing its inevitable burial. In the distance the black- brown wall of the forest is set against the dull grey sky. and the many shaped trees, welded into one ominous mass of background, rise majestically and sombrely in the distance. Approaching that forest by the difficult snow covered trails, I gradually discern the individuality of the symmetrical fir and the staunchness of the tiny shrub, the strength of the lasting oak, the depth of the mournful willow, the beauty of the upright maple, and the indomnitable persistence of the tiny fern. The blackness takes on new charm. Every tuft of withered grass, every tiny bed of worn and emaciated moss seems to tell its own tale, and seems to cry forth that it could outlast the pine, and fir and maple, that it could withstand the rigor of any clime, and live to feel again the warmth of summer, the pleas- ant rays of color-giving sunshine, the life- giving showers, to hear the mellow song of the birds, and the busy chatter of the beasts. The thoughts of summer seem sometimes like vain groping hopes, hopes which though genuine seem to lose their true ring in the long and seemingly endless anticipation of their realization. But to the shrub, to the fern, to the more impressive rulers of this vas: expanse, patience is a byword. For by what other imaginable quality could they survive that dreary period of cold and storm, of hard- ship and seeming death? Tall, short, stocky, thin, the forest ' s many shapes and sizes stand reared against the dark gray sky solemnly watching the never-ending march of the sea- sons, the constructive and destructive forces C ' f nature at work, the ever-present elements tattling for control and leaving desolation in their wake, the clash of the thunder, the flash of lightning, the angry earth spitting fire when aroused, or the sudden unexpected hun- ger of that earth when it opens wide its mouth and swallows up a part of its none too extensive surface . . . As I gaze at this monument of nature, the panorama of struggling humanity passes be- fore me. All are there, the tall and the short, the large and the small, the proud and the humble, the majestic and the servile. And when we regard humanity from a distance like the forest it seems firm and rock-ribbed with never a flaw in its rising and solid gran- deur. When we come closer, however, we s?e that what seemed a solid mass breaks up into many isolated factors, many individual shoots which despite their common root in Mother Earth struggle for subsistence, each in its own way. The splendor of the panorama would be broken were each shoot, each bush, each tree separated from its neighbors, yet all could still subsist in life even though standing thus alone without beauty or harmony. Indeed, it seems as if some great Guiding Hand ha ' ; joined these in one sphere so that their mutual interdependence may elevate the beauty and culture and life of all. In the arrangement of His plan He provided the changing seasons, the period of boom, and the period of de- pression, of plenty and of want, but He also provided the patience which springs from hope, from ambition, from faith. With all this, however, many a staunch tuft of grass is broken and many a brave heart ' s blood is split in the never-ending struggle for exist- ence. Then too, when a tornado rushes upon the scene, the saplings weather the storm, and though scarred and a little bent, remain firm, while those whose lofty tops seem to scrape the very sky itself fall and crash before the tornado ' s force, and their very resistance helps hew them down like mere tinder wood. Youth welcomes the battle of life and defies all opposing forces, but old age recedes and wilts, and yields under the weight of the vol- ley, gradually breaks with the strain, and in complete surrender finds everlasting peace.