I was editor of The Daily Free Press during the 1981–82 academic year. In October, I and four other members of the Free Press were arrested for trespassing at the Boston University police station, having defied an order to leave after the police refused to give us access to crime logs on campus (we believed it a matter of public safety; the university claimed it would violate students’ privacy). Hours after the arrest, Silber, not surprisingly, denounced us, saying that we had “chosen to strike out at the rationality that must be at the heart of a university.” Several months later, however, the university dropped the charges.
That following months were relatively quiet on campus: no professor strikes, no massive protests. But BU had quietly begun its long, slow real estate expansion. One of our regular cartoonists had drawn a panel showing Silber in a 1920s-era bathing outfit, building sandcastles and singing “It’s my university and I’ll build if I want to.” Days later, his office called. I held the phone, expecting a thunderous dressing-down. Instead, an assistant politely asked if Silber could get a copy of the cartoon; he’d been delighted by it. Sure, I said, and sent over the original.
Two days later, an invitation came asking if the cartoonist and I would join Silber for dinner. On the arranged evening, a BU police cruiser picked me up on the way to Cambridge to get Silber. We were heading to Locke-Ober, an old-world chop house downtown. On the way there, Silber asked how long I planned on being the editor. When I told him my term would end in the spring, he barked, “Why don’t you stay and really make some impact?” I sunk deeper into the backseat.
But once tucked into amber glow of Locke-Ober, with its white tablecloths and cigar smoke, Silber uncoiled. He greeted friends, inquired about our lives as students and patiently answered our questions. He seemed genuinely interested in what we said; there were no references to Kant, but to his days as a disc jockey in San Antonio (who knew?), and an introduction to port wine. It was a wonderful, surprising night.
As the squad car dropped me back at the Free Press office on Cummington Street, Silber kept talking. He was enjoying himself and seemed reluctant to let me go; I felt a bit awkward, having run out of things to say and struggling to match his conversation. Once out of the car, I went upstairs to the newsroom and recounted the evening, getting laughs and gasps in equal measure. Telling it now, it remains a window onto a part of Silber few got to see often enough—a man who , behind all that intellectual artillery, really seemed concerned about the welfare and future of young people. I got to see it, and I’m glad for it.
Larry Hackett
COM ’83
Managing editor, PEOPLE magazine
On Twitter: @hackettlarry