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At the time I was in public administration grad school. In my spare time, I was a Young Republican (they weren’t called College Republicans yet) and a co-columnist for the Michigan Daily, the student-run newspaper.

A friend of mine from Oberlin College (Harold Wolman) and I were writing columns each week about various statewide races across the country. He was a Democrat, so they were balanced, and good enough to win a UPI award for best student newspaper political column of the year

Harold and I ate at a food co-op called Vail. It was right behind my rooming house.

Some of the faculty came up with the idea of striking to protest the Viet Nam war. I took exception. After all, I was paying out-of-state tuition. If they wanted to strike, let them do so on their dime, not mine.

A socialist friend at the co-op told me about a planning meeting being held at what I remember to be an empty grocery store. I went and listened. A red-headed public health professor seemed to be the leader.

I must have gotten so worked up that I wrote an editorial for the Michigan Daily. It excoriated the proposed strike. (At the time, any staff member could write an editorial. It just had to be signed.)

The day it was published my public administration class went to East Lansing to meet Governor George Romney. (Imagine, a field trip in grad school!) That same day the state senate, probably controlled by Republicans, passed a resolution attacking the strike idea.

Naturally, I wrote a story about it, which ended up on the front page.

My job was bread baker at the co-op. I had never cooked bread, but brought up the idea in a meeting, because I liked the fresh bread we had at our co-op at Oberlin. Immediately, I was named bread baker. My protests that I had never baked bread were brushed aside.

I’m not sure, but I think it was the first time I was trying to figure out how to make bread. (It didn’t rise…twice. We used it for pizza dough.) My socialist friend came in during the evening and found me in the kitchen.

“Well, Cal, you won,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You said you wanted them to teach and that’s what they are going to do. They’re going to hold a ‘Teach-In.’”

I thought it was a creative idea. He told me there was going to be a meeting at the professor’s home to plan the Teach-In and invited me. I thought it might be interested and agreed to attend.

We arrived late in a Peugeot, drove up the short steep driveway and entered the house. The meeting had already begun.

We sat on the floor with our backs against the mullioned glass door.

After a while one of the students went up to the professor, who was next to a grand piano, and whispered in his ear, pointing at me.

The professor stopped his talk, stood up and said, “This is a meeting for my friends and I’ve been told someone is here who is not my friend. When I play this chord, I want that person to stand up and leave.”

“Da-Da, ”the strong chord played.

My socialist friend and I looked at each other and remained seated. as considerably embarrassed. He leaned over and asked quietly if he thought we should leave.

“I’m not his enemy. Let’s stay.”

When no one got up and left, the leftwing professor looked over and said more forcefully, “This is a meeting for my friends and I’ve been told someone is here who is not my friend. When I play this chord, I want that person to stand up and leave.”

By now my friend was considerably embarrassed. He leaned over and asked quietly if he thought we should leave.

“I’m not his enemy. Let’s stay.”

Again, I didn’t move.

So, because I was so non-compliant with his indirect wishes, he walked in front of the piano, pointed at me from maybe ten feet away and said, “You’re not my friend. I want you to leave.”

My friend left with me. I can still remember the strange feeling I had as a level Peugeot when backed down into the street.

This meeting was the closest thing to a Communist cell meeting I can imagine.

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