I Teach at Capital – Part 2

Here are three vignettes from my time teaching at Capital University Law School you might find interesting

A Possible Burglary

One of my closest friends and mentors at CULS was Josiah H. Blackmore, who later became Dean of the law school and then President of Capital University. In addition to the following, I will write much more about him in the future.

Faculty offices at CULS were far from opulent. Forming a perimeter along the walls of the Troutman Building, a converted car dealership, that housed administrative and faculty offices and the Law Library, the offices were small, providing space for a desk, a couple of chairs, and perhaps a bookcase and file cabinet. Joe's office was in the front part of the building.

Late one night during final exams, Joe received a call from campus security. It appeared, he was told, that his office had been ransacked. Papers and books were scattered everywhere, and the top of his desk had obviously been severely disturbed, since there appeared to be a random assortment of documents, mail (opened and unopened), and student papers. There was a concern his exam might be compromised.

Joe quickly got dressed and drove from his Worthington home to campus, where he met the security personnel and accompanied them to his office. When the door was opened, Joe surveyed the disorder. "Well," he said, "this is a little embarrassing, but it looks just like I left it this afternoon." Joe was not the most organized person on the planet!

Another One of Them

While most of my memories of CULS are pleasant, one event stands out as exactly the opposite, and permanently and negatively impacted my attitude toward two of my colleagues.

Almost every year the faculty had to act to either fill vacancies or hire new faculty as the law school expanded, particularly in the late 1970s and early 80's. The process involved the solicitation of applications through various means, an initial screening by a Faculty Recruitment Committee, interviews with some applicants, and, finally, extending offers to individuals we believed would be appropriate members of the faculty.

The faculty lounge at the law school was a simple room with a coffee pot and a few tables and chairs. A room divider of sorts contained the faculty mail boxes. One afternoon during the faculty recruitment period, I was checking my mailbox when I happened to overhear a conversation between two members of the faculty, who could not see me while they spoke.

The topic of their conversation was a potential faculty member who had been well-liked by the recruitment committee and who had impressed the faculty members who interviewed him during his visit to Capital. I overheard one of my colleagues say, "He would probably work out, but do we really want another Jew on this faculty. We have more than enough already." "Nope," replied the other, "we certainly do not need any more of them. Before long the pushy bastards will be trying to run the place."

I returned to my office, shocked by what I had heard. For most of my life, I had avoided having to confront the realities of anti-Semitism, and now, here it was, staring me in the face. Never again could I look at the two professors involved without a feeling of revulsion.

We did hire the gentleman they were concerned about. The faculty vote was overwhelmingly in favor of the hire – there were only two "no" votes.

Temperature Control

Most of my classes were taught in a lecture hall in a building on Capital's main campus called the Learning Center. I was constantly frustrated by my inability to control the temperature in the room, which was inevitably too hot or too cold. No matter how much I fiddled with the thermostat, the room was never comfortable.

One late afternoon after I had finished class, I was alone in the room trying, once more, to figure out the intricacies of the temperature adjustment instrument when a custodian came into the room. He said, "Professor, I really don't think you can do much with that thermostat." He came over to where I was twisting the dial, took hold of the demon device, and pulled. It came away from the wall, dangling wires that obviously had not been attached to anything at all.

"I think somebody just stuck that there to cover up a hole in the wall," he told me. 

I Teach at Capital – Part 1

I started teaching full time at Capital University Law School at the beginning of Fall Quarter of 1973. I was a brand new Assistant Professor, and pretty much scared to death. I was 28 years old and just three years out of law school. Many of my students, who had been in military service (this was the middle of the Vietnam war) or worked after obtaining their undergraduate degrees, were older than I was. I had never taught anything to anybody, and, like virtually all law school professors, I had no training as an educator at all.

Like so many significant events in my life, this one had started with a phone call. (Adventures in Family Law: Phone Call) Professor Roberta Mitchell, chair of the Faculty Recruitment Committee at CULS, called and asked if I was interested in a teaching position. I jumped at the chance. I had been very unhappy at the firm I joined right after law school. Firm practice was not for me; the prospect of teaching law was really attractive.

My first office at Capital was among the faculty offices that formed the perimeter of the Law School Administration Building, which also housed the school's library. The building was a converted car dealership, formerly Lex Mayer's Chevrolet, across Main Street from Capital's main campus in Bexley, Ohio. Adjacent to the building was a White Castle restaurant. When the breeze was right, the aroma of White Castle Sliders wafted into the library. Sometimes, we referred to the facility as the Lex Mayer's School of Law or the White Castle Library.

Law school classes were held across the street on the main campus, most in a building called the Learning Center. My first teaching assignments included teaching Family Law and, the real reason I was hired, the series of three courses based on the Uniform Commercial Code called Sales, Secured Transactions, and Negotiable Instruments. Keeping several pages ahead of the class, I started my teaching career.

From the very beginning, I loved teaching law. The students were bright, energetic, and ready to learn. The subject matter was, at least to me, fascinating. And my colleagues on the faculty were, for the most part, happy to be there, friendly, and supportive.

Capital University Law School had its origins in the YMCA law school movement of the early 20^th Century, which grew out of the philosophy that legal education should be available to all interested persons. In 1903, the Columbus Law School, one of 14 YMCA affiliated law schools, was formed to provide night classes in law. The classes were held in the YMCA building.

The Columbus Law School was recognized by the Ohio Supreme Court in 1906. However, World War I interrupted the program from 1913 until 1917. After reorganization, classes restarted in 1917, with 14 enrolled students. The first woman, Esther Brocker, graduated on June 9, 1926. According to the CULS website, “When a touchy subject came up during class, something they felt a woman should not hear, Esther was made to leave the classroom and the class would discuss it without her. Then afterwards, a classmate would have to explain to her what they talked about.”

In 1948, the name of the law school was changed to Franklin University Law School, and full accreditation by the American Bar Association was awarded in 1950. On September 1, 1965, the law school became a part of Capital University, and the first full-time day program was granted approval to start in the fall of 1969. The name was changed to Capital University Law School in 1972.

And, there I was in 1973.

Bar Exam Horrors

         There is no avoiding it. From that very first day of law school, every potential lawyer is aware of, and in dread of, the inevitable and accursed Bar Exam. Not even graduation can be fully enjoyed. I clearly remember sitting in my cap and gown, waiting for my J.D. degree to be bestowed, and thinking, "Damn. Now comes the Bar Exam!"

        Graduating from law school is like finding a strange combination lock attached to your locker. You know there is something worthwhile ahead, but a complex task has to be successfully completed first. You have to crack the safe to get in.

         You have paid your tuition, bought your books, studied alone and in groups, successfully passed myriad difficult finals, received your diploma – and now it's time to start the Bar Review Course. It appears that, notwithstanding that unique law school experience, there is more to learn. And it costs a considerable sum to sit and listen to more lectures preparing you for the ordeal.

         The Bar Exam has evolved some over the nearly 44+ years since my classmates, graduates of other law schools across the country, and I sat down at desks in the basement of Veterans' Memorial Hall in Columbus and plowed through three days of essay exams. In the interim, something called the Multi-State Bar Exam, a computer-scored, multiple-choice survey of basic law school subjects such as contracts, torts, and criminal law, has replaced one day of essays. But the Bar Exam is still an ordeal, a rite of passage through which every laborer in the vineyards of the law must pass.

          Our instructors in the Rossen Bar Review Course told us not to discuss the questions we had just answered during the break for lunch or at the end of each day. They told us that to do so would only upset us when we found out the question we thought involved negotiable instruments, everyone else thought was actually about intentional interference with contractual relations. We needed to be ready for the next set of questions; we couldn't afford to waste mental energy worrying about the last set.

           And then there was the constant fear that the Rule Against Perpetuities would raise its ugly visage and drive us all to distraction. Ask any lawyer and he or she will tell you all about that Rule.

            I think the evening after we finished the exam was the occasion of the drunkest I have ever been. A few of my law school buddies and I explored the bars on South High Street, combining the drowning of our despair over how we had done with celebrating the completion of the ordeal. Divine Providence made sure we got so drunk we forgot where the car was parked. We had to call a wife to come get us and come back downtown the next day to find the car.

              Next came the waiting. The Bar Exam is administered twice a year, in February and July. Far more graduates take the July Bar. Results are announced in late October. At first, you are so thrilled to be over the exam, you force it out of your head. But, as summer turns to fall, you can no longer avoid the inevitable – your future is at hand.

           I took the Bar Exam long before the advent of computers, email, and online information access. On the appointed morning, the only way to find out whether you had passed or failed was to either try to get through the busy signals while trying to call the Clerk of the Ohio Supreme Court to ask about your score, or by going to the Clerk's office in person to discover your fate.

            Today, privacy regulations prevent the publication of scores that individuals obtain on the Exam; however, in 1970, that was not the case.

            When a candidate arrived at the Clerk of Court's office, he or she went to a long counter and picked up one of several copies of the press release issued by the Supreme Court concerning the results of the Exam. The names of those passing were organized by county and then alphabetically. If your name wasn't on the list, you did not pass.

            I picked up a copy of the list that was already open to the page containing the Franklin County results. My eyes flew to the "S" names, and my worst fears were realized. My name was not there! How could that be? I caught the eye of one of the women behind the counter. "I can't find my name!" I whimpered.

            A look of sad sympathy passed over her face. "Let me check," she said. "What's your name? I stammered out, "Solove, Ronald." Her reaction was not what I expect. She smiled. "Read the first paragraph of the press release," she said.

            There it was. "The Ohio Supreme Court today announced that Ronald L. Solove of Columbus, Franklin County, received the highest score on the July, 1970 Ohio Bar Examination. Others passing are listed below, by their county of residence."

            I stepped out in the hall to find a pay phone and call Donna, by then my wife of five years and the mother of our two boys. Tears rolled down my face. "I passed," I said, when she answered. And so it began.

Yiddish Lesson -- A Brief Addendum

      I heard from a number of people offering additional Yiddish phrases that should have been discussed in yesterday's post. My law partner, Kerry McCormick, reminded me that one of her and my favorites is "tuchas offen tisch," which, in literal translation, means, "Put your butt on the table." Its closest English equivalent is "Let's have a meaningful, no-nonsense discussion of the issues."

         Kerry described herself as, "one of the office shiksas." You can look it up.

         My friend, Rabbi Howard Apothaker, suggested I discuss "Gai kocken in yam!" As he observed, the phrase has many uses in various appropriate situations. Its literal meaning (somewhat cleaned up) is "Go relieve yourself in the ocean." In general, it is a dismissive response to some foolish behavior.

       A dear friend and former colleague, Rexanne Hosafros,  now an expat in Florida, told me her favorite is "zaftig" -- an adjective generally employed to describe a full-figured woman.

        No doubt, there are many other Yiddish words and phrases that you and I might encounter. If you have questions about what the Jews called the "Mamaloshen" -- the Mother Tongue -- let me know and I'll try to track down an answer.

Yiddish Lesson

           Yiddish is an interesting language, made up primarily of German, Hebrew, and Polish vocabulary and written in Hebrew characters. It was the primary language of Eastern European Ashkenazi Jews, who resided in the "Pale of Settlement," the region of imperial Russia in which Jews were permitted to live. The Pale, as it was called, is most familiar to us today as the setting for Fiddler on the Roof.

            Large numbers of Jewish immigrants came from the Pale to the United States in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, and they brought their Yiddish with them. Primarily on the Lower East Side of New York, they established a thriving Yiddish theater and many Yiddish publications.

My father's parents spoke Yiddish, and my father was pretty fluent, as well. My mother understood more Yiddish than she actually spoke. The primary employment of Yiddish in my family as I grew up was to enable my parents to have conversations that their children could not understand.

            Outside of a few Hassidic enclaves, Yiddish is not a significant, spoken language today. Eastern European Jewish immigrants worked hard to insure that their children became "real Americans" who spoke English and participated in American society. The real last nail in the coffin of Yiddish was the decision by the founders of the State of Israel to choose Hebrew, an ancient language used primarily in prayer and study, over Yiddish as one of the national languages of their old/new nation. (The other, by the way, is Arabic.)

            But a fragment of Yiddish survived in the form of words and phrases passed down to the "third generation" as part of the vernacular in most Jewish homes. Today, that fragment is peppered in the conversation of Jews whenever a serious conversation is in progress. Sometimes, we even forget that the words are not really English!

            Some of the words and phrases have become, through literature, entertainment, and food, a part of the American language. A Wikipedia article lists over 100 such words. Examples include bagel, chutzpah, gelt, glitch, kibitz, kosher, lox, mensch, nebbish, schlep, schmooze, shalom, shamus, shtick, and tush. The level of penetration of these words can be demonstrated by the fact that my spell check recognized all but two of them!

            But some words and phrases are almost exclusively known and employed by Jews about my age. I have had several conversations with Jewish lawyers and clients which include a smattering of Yiddish and which sort of constitute a private language. However, since other people at our firm are often parties to these conversations, or are just exposed to my compulsion to employ some Yiddish from time to time, I have conducted a few Yiddish lessons in the office.

            Here are a few of the words and phrases I have tried to teach, or which find their way into my legal thought processes. My renderings in English may be subject to some debate.

            Kayn ahora – a reference to the Evil Eye, with similar impact to "knocking on wood."

            Meshugge – Crazy. Irrational behavior

            Gai gezunterhait – Go in good health!

            Gantser megilleh – Big deal (sarcastic).

            Get – A Jewish ritual divorce.

            Pareve – Neither meat nor dairy – can be eaten with either. Bland.

       Hock mir nicht kein chinik – One of my mother's favorites meaning, "Stop pestering me!" Literally, it means "Don't bang on my tea kettle!"

            Alter cocker – Grumpy, old person. Literally, an old fart.

       And then there is that certain type of client or attorney, known in the language of my grandparents as a Schmuck!