‘Fraternity of Silence’

Brimming with youthful vigor and confidence, I set out to make my mark on the world. I planned to be an accomplished dentist, and embraced the opportunity to study in the halls of Emory University in Atlanta where I was accepted. I earned a B+ as a biology major and gained early admission to Emory’s renowned dental school.

I had never failed a course in my life – ever. Yet, in the summer of 1952, after completing my first year, I received a letter from the dean informing me that I had flunked out and would not be allowed to return.

Flunked? Me? I was flummoxed by this unexpected stain on my stellar record and did not know what to make of it.

“What have you done to me?” My mother wailed, and I hung my head, unable to answer. I had no idea how it happened, and it came as more of a shock to me than to my parents. Shamed and humiliated, I refused to let this destroy my dream, and went on to get accepted to dental school in the University of Tennessee, where I ultimately graduated fourth in my class.

Over the next few weeks of that summer, I found out that three of my classmates had also flunked out. Coincidentally, all three were Jewish. Disturbed by the blatant anti-Semitism, I buried my pain, determined to prove the dean wrong in his assessment. Choosing oral surgery as my specialty, I established a successful practice as an oral surgeon for the next forty-three years.

I had not failed after all. Years passed, and I was content with my family and profession. Until the year 2000, when I attended a reunion of my Jewish fraternity brothers from our undergrad days. To my surprise, I discovered that eight of the men in the room had also been wounded by the dean.

None of us had ever spoken about it. My wife called us “A Fraternity of Silence.” After all, why would we want to confess to our wives or children that we had flunked our first year in dental school or made to stay back and repeat courses? It was a badge of shame that remained dormant in our hearts, yet still vibrated with silent pain.

In the year 2006, the university that had failed me proudly celebrated the 30^th anniversary of its Jewish studies program. A Jewish history professor curated an exhibit to be viewed at the event. While most of the exhibit painted the Jewish university experience in a positive light, one part caught my attention, and my blood froze as I internalized the reality of what I was seeing. A graph demonstrated what happened in the dental school between the years of 1948-1961. A shockingly high column illustrated that 65% of the Jewish students had either been failed out completely or made to repeat courses during those years.

And suddenly I knew, as if a blazing spotlight had showered light into a dark corner. I wasn’t a failure, and neither were my classmates. The dental school was the failure.

Following a conversation with a fellow dental student who still carried the pain of what had happened, I determined to locate the other dental students who had suffered the same discrimination.

What I found was that each had a story, vivid and glaring. Yet, not one had allowed the negative ordeal to beat him down, and instead used the experience as a rung in a ladder leading to positive growth and development.

“A month before I graduated,” one man confided, “I was forced to endure an hour-long dressing down in front of the dean and the entire faculty. A teacher approached me afterwards, apologizing for not supporting me during the unfair and undeserved tirade. ‘I have a wife and kids to support,’ he explained, patting my shoulder quickly before moving away.”

“When I got my degree, I felt like I had been released from prison,” another said. Yet a third said the dean used to call him “my little black sheep.”

One of my fellow Jewish students, who was also flunked out, succeeded in being accepted to Temple University Dental School where he graduated first in his class. Years later, he bumped into our former dean at an army base dental clinic. He was greeted with the line, “Burns, I’d recognize that nose anywhere.”

“Imagine trying to study,” one student recounted, “knowing that no matter how you performed, the dean was committed to flunking you out.”

“Why do you Jews want to go into dentistry?” was a common question that most of the students heard. “You don’t have it in the hands.”

An application form that the dean created, asking students to indicate their category – Caucasian, Jewish, or Other – proved to be his downfall. The Anti-Defamation League pressured the university to procure his resignation. When he assumed the mantle of dean at the University of South Carolina Dental School, the Charleston Jewish community protested, having heard of his anti-Semitic record. The protests went unheeded – the selection committee claimed the allegations were not documented.

Over the years, Emory University has long since proven its loyalty and respect for its Jewish students, staff, and the overall local community. The time finally seemed ripe for some belated action in regard to its shameful history. Although I was 74 and retired, I was determined to right a wrong and to see justice carried out, even though it was long overdue. I spent time researching the school’s archives, and uncovered documented proof of the now deceased dean’s anti-Semitism. I traveled around the county to find these former students, videoed their testimonies, and brought the film to the current vice president. I watched him flinch as he listened, witnessing the pain still flickering in the eyes of the former students, now men in their 70’s and 80’s.

“Something has to be done,” he assured me. Standing by his commitment, he invited all of us to a presentation that would remain with us for the rest of our lives.

A distinguished group of former doctors, lawyers, CPA’s, computer experts, and even an artist who had won awards, converged from all over the country for a life-changing, memorable event. They were all former students of its dental school who had endured the dean’s scathing reign. The artist, despite veering away from his dream of dentistry, set out to prove that he “did have it in his hands.”

Our prominent group and our families first met privately with the school president, and then proceeded to enter a ballroom where together we faced a standing room only crowd of hundreds who had come to pay us tribute. Widows and children of deceased students came to honor their family members who hadn’t lived to see this day. And we students and retired professionals, husbands, fathers, and grandfathers were finally accorded the respect and recognition that had been denied us so many years ago.

“Institutions are as fallible as the people who fill them. Like individuals, universities need to remember the principles they want to live by,” the president movingly addressed the crowd. “There are often things we regret about our past, but there is the possibility of making amends and of building on the acknowledgment of those things. The discrimination against Jewish dental students undermined the academic integrity of the dental school and ultimately of our university… I am sorry. We are sorry.”

Wives dabbed their eyes, and children and grandchildren beamed with pride. It was a magical moment, like we had finally climbed the summit of a huge mountain surrounded by our loved ones, and we were able to bury our past and hold our heads high.

One ninety-year-old traveled across the country for the event, and my wife and I had the pleasure of hosting him. The following day he passed away.

A medal for being a university history maker was hung on my neck, and my research became the foundation of the documentary “From Silence to Recognition.” But the real award was the light I saw shining in these people’s eyes – sixty years overdue, but not too late.

How fitting that the event took place right after the Yomim Noraim, a powerful time of introspection and teshuvah. It was a time of coming full circle, healing, and new beginnings.