June 28, 2007

Editorial

Other voices—
This I believe about Antioch

By Dan Gediman

I have been struggling with what to say about the recent events at Antioch that hasn’t already been said more eloquently by others, especially by others with more recent and intimate connections to the school or the village than I have. I write from the perspective of a graduate of Antioch, a past staff member of WYSO, and a six-year resident of Yellow Springs back in the late 70s/early 80s. In the intervening years, I have visited sporadically. Quite a bit at first, then progressively less as the years past and work and family responsibilities crowded my life. I attended my 10th-year anniversary (one of about 10 members of my class to do so), brought my fiancé (now wife) up to visit once, then my children a few years later. I dutifully read my Antiochian alumni newsletter each quarter, sent in some money each year, did a bit of recruiting for the admissions office, stayed in touch with a couple of college friends, but otherwise was a fairly uninvolved alumnus.

Then about six months ago I visited again, this time at the request of the radio station, which wanted me to come up and do a talk about a book I had recently edited of essays from the National Public Radio (NPR) series I produce, “This I Believe.” While I was there, I was also asked to talk to a group of Dayton-area Antioch alums. I was completely unprepared for the emotions that washed over me that evening. I came there supposedly to talk about my book and found myself instead talking about the profound way that my time at Antioch had affected me, especially the way it solidified the core beliefs that I still hold dear — beliefs that are often held up to ridicule for being overly earnest, corny, even old-fashioned in today’s America. Tears welled up in my eyes as I heard a fellow Antiochian reading a “This I Believe” essay written 55 years ago by Arthur Morgan for Edward R. Murrow’s original version of the series.

In the wake of that emotion-filled visit, I had two strong thoughts. One was that I was glad that Antioch would be around when the time came for my two small children to attend college. The other thought was that I hoped someday I might be able to return to Yellow Springs and teach radio to another generation of Antiochians, in some small way paying back the debt of gratitude that I owed Antioch for launching my own radio career.

So it was with great excitement that I contemplated attending my 25th-anniversary reunion at the end of June, hoping to reconnect in an even deeper way with my alma mater. Then I learned the news from a work colleague who had just heard it mentioned on NPR. I quickly went to the college’s Web site and there it was, verification of this awful fact. And I started to grieve.

First my grief was very selfish and personal — I had hoped someday that my children might attend. But my grief quickly encompassed a far wider group, starting with the faculty. I knew that this would be unimaginably hard for them and their families, especially in light of the professional sacrifices that many of them had made over the decades they taught at Antioch — forgoing a of kind of research and publishing regimen that is essential to getting tenure at most other schools. Where would these gifted and dedicated people go when Antioch closed its doors? And what about the current students, who had hung in there and stayed during what I’m told has been a rather messy, and now quite tragic, effort to drastically overhaul the academic program? But the people I grieved for the most, in the end, were the kids of the future who will never even have the chance to go to Antioch — the dreamers, the misfits, the outcasts — who have for decades found a uniquely welcoming home in Yellow Springs.

I was one of those mixed up high-school kids who found a safe haven at Antioch, a place where I felt socially accepted for just about the first time in my life, and academically challenged by professors who felt I could really soar if just given the right push.

I feel like the Antioch poster child. It gave me absolutely everything I needed to not just survive but thrive in my adult life. It provided me with the inspiration for both my vocation, radio, and my avocation, music, two passions that remain by my side to this day. I will remain eternally grateful for all the gifts that Antioch provided to me, and profoundly sad for the probable loss of this utterly unique institution that has meant so much to me.

I say probable knowing there are many people on the faculty, in the administration, and amongst the alums who are currently scheming to save the college. I wish them well and intend to do anything I can to help them. And yet I find that I am not very optimistic that a viable way can be found. Even if substantial money can be raised by the alums and an agreement can be reached with the university to turn over the assets of the college to a newly incorporated organization, the 64-thousand-dollar-question is where the students will come from, after all this dire publicity has been so widely disseminated.

And yet, this has happened before — Antioch rising like a phoenix. When Arthur Morgan came to Yellow Springs in 1920, Antioch was on the verge of extinction. But through his strong and visionary leadership, the college emerged from the ashes even more extraordinary than it was in the 19th century. Perhaps there is another such visionary out there waiting to reclaim Antioch’s mantle of glory. I deeply hope so. But until the messiah comes, I will still grieve for what has been lost.

* The writer graduated from Antioch’s Class of 1982 and currently produces the NPR series 'This I Believe.'