When Clyde Wingfield arrived at the newly renovated 24th Street building (the president's office having been moved from 17 Lexington Avenue), in July 1971, he found a bustling, poorly managed institution with plenty of problems but clearly on the path of rapid growth. There were 5,418 day- session, 3,592 evening-session and 3,043 graduate students at Baruch during the fall semester of 1971, by far the greatest number ever to enroll at "UCLA" since its separation from City College, but soon to grow even larger.
The foregoing nickname had been bestowed on the college by one of its best-loved characters, Tony Ermilio, a Baruch elevator operator for twenty-three years who explained, when asked, that the letters stood for the "University at the Corner of Lexington Avenue." Tony was the source of much humor at Baruch (badly needed in crowded elevators more jammed than a rush-hour subway), usually presented in the form of questions to which, at least when first asked, only he knew the answer. An example: "Do you know what to call a clock on the moon? A lunatick!" or "Why shouldn't a girl marry a guy who lives on a hill? Because he's not on the level!" Tony loved Baruchians (pronounced Barootchians), and they returned his affection by making him "Honorary Dean of Transportation" at a ceremony in April 1971.
The new president would find that fun was also to be had outside the elevators. The College had an extremely active Committee on Social Activities, led by two energetic faculty members, Jean Jofen and Harry Bixler, which arranged theatre, opera and spectacular holiday parties as well as "Bring-a-dish suppers," all for the purpose of bringing together an increasingly separated faculty. Extracurricular life, however, was not all partying; there was also considerably cultural activity. Even if Baruch was not quite, as Baruch Today 'said, "Almost Lincoln Center," a rich roster of speakers and performers appeared every year. Efforts begun before independence had been continued and intensified in the College's early years. The advent of new liberal-arts faculty assured that art exhibits, music recitals and poetry readings would become even more important.(1)
Did Wingfield accurately gauge the extent of the difficulties he would encounter during the next five years? If he did not, the report of the Middle States team that visited Baruch during his second semester provided a rude awakening. In spite of what must have been traumatic reading for the new president, he exhibited considerable resiliency, taking the team's recommendations seriously and making many of the changes they suggested. The Office of Institutional Research was enlarged in March 1975, and in response to the finding that twenty-one liberal arts departments were too many, the two foreign-language departments and the three science departments were merged in 1976, creating a Department of Modern Languages and a Department of Natural Science. Similarly, new criticism of the split between day and evening session led Wingfield, in late 1972, to bring the sessions together and place both under the control of the vice-president for academic affairs.
The 1972 Middle States Report (probably because the team members had read earlier reports) did not waste much time on Baruch's space problem but instead succinctly stated "Baruch College must be the slum of New York colleges," giving the President a reason, assuming that he needed an additional one, to make the acquisition of a real campus his greatest priority Wingfield also made changes not discussed in the team's report. For example, he presided over the making of a new governance plan, mandated by the Board of Education but stalled in the BCCC until he appointed a strong Committee on Governance to take over the task.(2)
The new charter was intended to be a vehicle for decision-making by the entire Baruch College community and thus gave an important role to students. Through elected assemblies (day, evening, graduate), a student senate that included representatives from each of the assemblies, and seats on the committees of the departments in which they were majors, students, for the first time, were in a position to influence the course of events at 23rd Street. Faculty also had more input. The Faculty Senate's importance was clarified and there was a general increase in faculty activity through department and school executive committees. Those with faculty rank now had much greater influence on the personnel process via department promotion committees, increased representation on the College Personnel and Budget Committee (School Personnel Committees remained the preserve of chairmen) and a new Academic Review Committee that heard appeals from the College Personnel Committee.
The separate place of the Graduate Division was reaffirmed, as was student control over their media and their right to participate in the teacher-evaluation procedure now mandated by the Board of Higher Education. The office of ombudsman, which had emerged from the troubles of spring 1970, was retained; the ombudsman would be chosen by a newly constituted agency, the Baruch College Council, a huge group designed to "function as the overall representative body of the Baruch College Community." It was intended to replace the ineffective BCCC, which had emerged from the campus crisis two years earlier, but it was no more effective than its predecessor and disappeared when the governance plan was revised in 1986. One other provision that proved to be a problem and was also later changed was the requirement that 30 percent of each of the groups that constituted the Baruch community had to approve amendments and revisions. This level of participation proved difficult to achieve, especially from the students.(3)
The plan allowed each school to determine the make-up of its curriculum committee. This opening was used to make the School of Liberal Arts Curriculum Committee elective and thus reduce the power of entrenched chairmen, whose attempts to keep "young, industrious and imaginative faculty from power" was strongly criticized in the Middle States report. This change, in turn, enabled the School to reduce the vast number of liberal-arts courses that the team had called, accurately, the "accretion of the past."(4)
Wingfield applauded this step because he wanted to focus on the College's present and future, not its past. Perhaps because of his training in public administration, the new president was a pragmatist and a realist. Whatever his personal beliefs, Open Admissions was CUNY policy, so Wingfield spoke strongly in favor of it, telling unhappy alumni, via Baruch Today, not to look at entrance averages or remedial courses, but to look at the quality of the students who graduated. When Governor Rockefeller proposed tuition in 1971, Wingfield pointed out that "to impose tuition would be to remove one of the most important incentives for middle and working class families to continue living in the city. "(5)
There was good reason for the president to defend Open Admissions and oppose tuition. As a result of these policies, Baruch grew larger and richer during his term in office. As one would expect, the big surge was in undergraduate enrollment, which increased by 39 percent between 1970-1971 and 1974-1975. Graduate enrollment also grew substantially and was 25 percent larger in the latter year than it had been in the former. Total headcount in 1974-1975 was 17,795, the highest in Baruch's history and, at least up to this writing, never again equalled.(6)
Open Admissions, because it brought such huge numbers each year, led to changes in student life at Baruch. Freshman Colloquium gave way to Freshman Seminar: eight weekly classes, conducted by student leaders or SEEK counsellors, that attempted to fulfill some of the goals of the earlier weekends, minus the country setting and the fun. Because the students were increasingly from low-income families or were self-supporting, financial aid became an important aspect of student life. Some things did not change. The student body, as a whole, continued to be apolitical; there were sporadic protests against events in Southeast Asia, but the Watergate scandal had little impact. The greatest unrest was within the student personnel services department; it culminated in a request to remove Dean of Students Roy Senour. After months of negotiations, he resigned and was replaced by a young and energetic psychology professor, Jay Finkelman, in May 1976.(7)
Finkelman, although a very young man, had been at Baruch as a graduate assistant and professor since 1966; in comparison to most of his peers when he became dean, he was an old-timer. The faculty had been growing since the School had separated from City College, modestly at first but at a greatly accelerated rate after 1970. With the exception of the interregnum year between Weaver and Wingfield, instructors had been added in large bunches: forty in 1970, eighty in 1972, eighty-two in 1973 and forty-nine in 1974. Expansion was brought to a halt by the onset of the fiscal crisis in 1975. During the next few years many of the newly hired lost their jobs. Even after the carnage, however, in 1977, there were 127 more men and women teaching full time at Baruch than there had been in 1968. Both schools gained, but Liberal Arts added about one-third more people than did Business.
Because the overwhelming majority of the newcomers were assistant professors who would be up for tenure in five years, they were very anxious to publish, lest they perish. As a result, they listened carefully when Grants Officer Seymour Giniger explained the kinds of grants available for scholarly research, applied for them with enthusiasm and received many awards. Issue after issue of Baruch Today recorded their impressive success. In 1970, only six faculty received scholarly support; in 1974, seventy-two faculty members were awarded eighty different grants, the highest number ever recorded. This was topped, in monetary terms only, three years later when the New York State Legislative Institute and the Department of Education won large sums for research into urban problems.
It was not unusual for School of Business grants to carry more money, but in terms of numbers, the arts and science faculty was more successful. Because there were no graduate classes for them to teach (one graduate course was worth two undergraduate sections in computing an instructor's workload), they taught more hours per week than most of their colleagues in the other schools. But this was also one of the reasons they were more interested in research; the inability of the School of Liberal Arts and Sciences to attract large numbers of students to their upper-level courses led well trained young scholars to look for other professional outlets.(8)
CUNY criteria for faculty retention and promotion stressed teaching ability as well as research and publication. How did Baruch's faculty do in this regard? The first faculty evaluation, mandated by the Board of Education after collective bargaining was established, took place in November 1972 and was repeated annually thereafter. The overall results of the first evaluation, although generally favorable, were not made available to students; predictably, the Ticker protested. Less predictably, the protest was heeded and in the following year more than half the faculty allowed the Ticker to publish their scores. The favorable profile revealed by the results of the teaching evaluations (although the questionnaire itself was much criticized and was still being revised in 1987), was good news for the faculty. It was, however, somewhat overshadowed by the activities of the Faculty Senate, which gave them a voice, and the growing power of the Professional Staff Congress (PSC), which gave them protection.(9)
Among its other effects, recognition of the PSC required administrative expansion at the municipal colleges, but this was only one reason for a trend that was clearly apparent during the Wingfield years. A chart prepared for the Middle States team in 1972 showed many more administrative offices than had existed in the College's first year or two (the Office of College Relations, for example, had been created in Spring 1969 to do public relations work with the outside world, especially the alumni), and the proliferation continued thereafter. To begin with, two new deanships--one for academic affairs and the other for administration--were created. As the College and its problems grew, each of these deans, as well as the school deans, needed assistants. In time, the president promoted his academic and administrative advisors to vice-presidential rank, and their increased responsibilities required additional personnel to aid them. New programs such as the Center for Collective Bargaining in Higher Education and the New York State Legislative Institute required directors and staff.
Open Admissions (although much of the allocation and processing was done at a central CUNY office), also placed great pressure on the admissions staff at Baruch, which had to evaluate the prior records of thousands of transfer students. Thus, this office had to be enlarged. The volume of registrants each fall and spring nearly drowned the registrar's staff, which, until the system could be computerized, required more personnel. Unionization brought benefits, grievances and the need for an expanded personnel staff. Welcome additional space, rented or renovated, required the services of Constantine "Gus" Fakas as director of Campus Planning. The proliferation, a characteristic of higher education nationally in the 1970's, resulted in a substantial increase in the number of Higher Education Officers (HEO), who often became the "good right arm" of deans and directors.(10)
Administrators in profusion came and went, and it became quite difficult to tell the players without a score card. William Monat was first the dean of faculties, two years later academic vice-president and two years after that left to become the President of Northern Illinois University, but not before he had acquired an assistant dean, Matthew Goldstein of the statistics department. Monat's counterpart, Dean of Administration Maurice Benewitz, was replaced as vice-president by Bernard Mintz, himself to become acting president when Wingfield left for Florida in 1976. Many changes were made in Mintz's bailiwick, among them increased responsibilities for Esther Liebert, the director of personnel, who was in charge of the affirmative-action program. Aaron Sklar, the business manager and budget expert for the College, was a figure of great importance, especially during the fiscal crises of the mid-seventies. Open Admissions and the onset of tuition increased the importance of financial aid, and this became another of Mintz's responsibilities.
Registration problems, first Monat's concern and then assigned to Mintz, became the province of Baruch alumnus and computer expert Lew Temares. Without a computerized system (in the works but not in place), Temares found that it was very difficult to register huge numbers of students by the non-too-efficient methods used when there were perhaps a third as many. One cold and rainy night, the line of people waiting to register stretched from 25th Street all around Lexington Avenue to 24th. To his credit, the registrar stayed in the rain with the students, clowning and joking away their painful wait. Subsequent registrars, aided by increasing computerization, were less amusing, but the process also became less traumatic.
School deans were somewhat more permanent than other administrators. Gerald Leinwand and Thomas Frazier were replaced by Arthur Brown and Selma Berrol in 1972, who stayed in office until 1977 and 1978 respectively. Also in 1972, School of Business chiefs Jules Manson and Frank Saidel were replaced by Henry Eilbert and Bertha Newhouse. Eilbert left within a few years, to be replaced first by John Griffin (dean of graduate studies) and later by Samuel Thomas. The latter remained for only four years, but Newhouse, on the other hand, remained until 1986. Gerald Leinwand stayed in place from 1973, when his School of Education was created, to 1977, when he was replaced by Bruce Tuckman. As a result of all this movement, at different moments in the seventies, interim administrators, of lesser or greater ability, conducted the college's day-today life.
In terms of structure, there were two important changes. The Graduate Division was abolished in 1975 and administration of post-baccalaureate programs (except for the Ph.D. program, which had its own executive officer) was placed in the hands of the deans of business and education, with the graduate faculty (limited to those who taught master's and/or doctoral courses) responsible for curriculum. The existence of a dean of education was the result of the second important change of the Wingfield era, the creation of the School of Education.(11)
The idea that a small and specialized School of Education at Baruch could help fulfill the mission posed in the Keppel report had been around for some time, but had not been brought to fruition. In early 1973, however, Vice-Chancellor Timothy Healy suggested that the president consider using the Department of Education faculty already at Baruch and the talents of Gerald Leinwand to create a School of Education for the specific purpose of developing innovative programs to improve inner-city schools. Wingfield hastened to take his advice. Urban school problems were growing worse and worse and the New York City system, in particular, was in serious trouble. Institutions and individuals that could come up with solutions would achieve fame and win wide support. In spite of these justifications, however, the president's decision was not popular. For one thing, Leinwand lacked a strong cadre of supporters in either school, especially in Business. Human relations aside, however, only a small number of faculty put much stock in the importance or potential success of innovative programs for inner-city schools. Indeed, most believed that the new school would take resources from the older schools without providing benefits to the College.
Members of the new school's faculty, notably Helen Robison, however, took seriously the mission to innovate and reform and worked very hard to launch new and different programs. One such program was the career-ladder program for Hispanic and later Chinese women, who had been working for the Board of Education as paraprofessionals (teaching assistants) at the minimum wage and aspired to become teachers. Many had serious problems with English, and none had completed high school in New York City. There was, however, opportunity for them if they could earn a bachelor's degree, because the Board of Education needed bilingual teachers. It took some of them ten years, but many did indeed become licensed teachers.
Robison was also behind the establishment of teaching centers, notably in Community School District 8 in the Bronx and later at Norman Thomas High School. The idea behind the centers was to identify promising teachers whom Robison would train to be "master teachers" for students and beginners. Public school administrators and faculty, unfortunately, were not cooperative, and this particular innovation came to naught. Robison and her colleague Patricia Kay (notably successful at obtaining grants), were also active in developing a new procedure designed to improve the quality of teaching. In company with many other traditional standards dismissed as "irrelevant" in the sixties, testing applicants by written examination was much criticized and "competency based" examinations, which graded candidates according to certain practical standards, became the new panacea.(12)
The School of Education also launched two new Master of Science programs. Educational administration did well, but the early-childhood education program did not attract many students. In general, the success of the new school was limited, because it could not enroll enough students. Most of the professors in the school were underemployed. Two departments, Education and Physical and Health Education, constituted the school when it began; they employed forty-one teachers, later augmented by two teachers of business education from Hunter, which abandoned its Business Education program during the fiscal crisis.
The financial emergency was in large part responsible for the scarcity of would-be teachers. As had been true during the Great Depression of the thirties, Board of Education funds were drastically cut, and teaching jobs were eliminated. Furthermore, enrollments in the elementary and high schools had been falling for some time because the bulk of the baby boomers had passed through the system by 1970. Long-range statistics indicated that more children would be entering school in the late seventies and eighties; at that time, the city would find funds to employ teachers for them. For the time being, however, there seemed little practical reason to enroll for a bachelor's degree in education. In view of this situation, and because of their own monetary problems, the Board of Higher Education cut or merged 40 percent of their teacher-education programs but, in spite of much anxiety, the Baruch program remained. Its emphasis, however, shifted to accommodate the realities.(13)
It was essential to increase the headcount of the school, so Professor Arlene Julius was assigned to develop a continuing education program for adult nonmatriculants, much like the better-known ones already in existence at Columbia, the New School and other institutions of higher learning. Many other ploys were also tried, such as a Program in Educational Development for the already employed teacher who wanted to improve or to learn something new, a bilingual secretarial studies major, a physical education specialization in sports administration, one in higher education administration, another in special education (for the learning disabled) and a paralegal program offered in cooperation with the law department.
No one could say that Leinwand and many of his staff had not obeyed the injunction of the Keppel report. They had tried to fit their programs into the "administrative sciences" framework as the report had urged, and they had unquestionably been innovative. They had done their best, but they could not overcome the monumental difficulties that faced every teacher-education program in the city, let alone a brand-new one in a new college that did not have a strong identity. Partly in recognition of this, Gerald Leinwand accepted an offer to become the president of the Oregon College of Education and left his native city in August 1977. He was replaced, until Bruce Tuckman was appointed, by Acting Dean Theodore Lang, who tried to bolster sagging morale by stressing how well the educational administration program was doing.(14)
The establishment of the School of Education was a continuation of the symbiotic relationship between Baruch and New York City. Just as the creation of the School of Business in 1919 had been in large part a response to the needs of a city whose white-collar sector was growing by leaps and bounds, and the creation of Baruch College in 1968 was to a great extent a response to its continuing needs for trained service personnel, the School of Education was intended to meet a different kind of need: to bring thousands of young children, largely poor and from minority groups, into the educational mainstream. This, however, is where the similarity ends; in contrast to its successes in educating accountants and other business personnel, Baruch had relatively little impact on the troubled New York school system.
Other units of the college were also busy with outreach efforts during the Wingfield years. One of the first was, in a sense, a continuation of earlier programs offered to already employed municipal workers. Beginning in fall 1971, in cooperation with the United States Civil Service Commission, the Graduate Division offered middle-level civil servants the opportunity to pursue part-time MPA studies at the offices at which they worked. A different kind of adult education was offered to actual or potential leaders of low-income communities. Baruch faculty taught them housing law, the economics of the job market and management skills. A third kind of continuing education was the most successful of all. Beginning in fall 1972 the School of Business offered six courses "to fledgling businessmen from the minority community who had little or no formal education in the various business disciplines." One hundred and ten people graduated from the Minority Small Business Program at special ceremonies on May 29, 1974. By December 1974, 500 people had been through the program.(15)
The newly created New York State Legislative Institute began a study of state policies that affected the poor, examining areas such as bank credit, insurance and utility rates. State officials also had access to the findings of the New York Statistical Project, founded by Dean John Griffin. Both of these efforts performed a valuable community service, providing New York state policy makers with a factual basis for legislative action. Still another kind of service, this time offered to established businesspeople, many of whom were Baruch alumni, was the Advanced Management Program begun in September 1974 under the direction of Assistant Dean Mortimer Feinberg, a specialist in industrial psychology. Through seminars and other teaching devices, the self--sustaining, nonprofit program focused on the immediate concerns of top managers.
One of the College's most innovative outreach moves was the creation of the National Institute for Collective Bargaining in Higher Education. Largely the brainchild of Maurice Benewitz, whose distinguished career as a labor arbitrator paralleled his career as a teacher and administrator at Baruch, the formation of the institute reflected the growing trend toward unionization of college faculty, with its resulting problems. One of the issues was studied at the institute's first conference, on "Grievances, Procedures and Arbitration in Higher Education," held at the College in fall 1972. Following this auspicious beginning, the institute continued to draw substantial numbers to its seminars and attract grant money for research; it was altogether one of most successful extension efforts of the College.(16)
When Wingfield reported to the Board of Higher Education in 1975, he was not shy about listing the outreach achievements of the College. He also wrote glowingly of the Graduate Division, but under close scrutiny, this portion of his report does not hold up as well as the other segments. Emphasizing the positive, mostly the large number of MBA degrees Baruch had awarded and the fact that the college now drew graduate students from colleges across the nation, he bypassed the poor quality of the students and the lack of senior faculty. Outside evaluators, however, were not willing to overlook such serious faults; indeed, the (AACSB) had placed the Graduate Program on probation for exactly these reasons.
Perhaps because they were vulnerable regarding the quality of the students they accepted into their graduate programs, the School of Business faculty clung to the thesis requirement for the MBA until the spring of 1976, but the creation of a Graduate Faculty in that year took control of the program out of the hands of the faculty as a whole and made it possible to move to a variety of thesis alternatives, including research seminars and internships. Accountancy, however, did not admit defeat until 1982, and even then retained the thesis for the taxation specialization. There was also change in another direction. For the first time, the college embarked on two joint graduate programs. One was an MBA/JD with Brooklyn Law School and the other a combined MBA in Labor Relations with Cornell University.(17)
The Wingfield years also saw several efforts to erect bridge programs at the undergraduate level. After a long struggle, an urban studies program was approved (although never implemented), a successful business journalism program begun, and a statistics BBA/ MBA announced. The leadership of the School of Liberal Arts encouraged such moves and urged department curriculum committees to do more. Some responded. The foreign-language departments agreed on a translator-training program. A program for the business training of history majors, which included an internship in the management of cultural and historical institutions, was begun. Furthermore, plans were made for an American studies major (interdisciplinary, if not interschool) and a pre-social work specialization (which included management courses) as well as an arts administration major, which would combine the culture of the arts with practical training in business.
This kind of interschool curricular activity was what the Keppel, Middle States and Birnbaum reports had prescribed for the School of Liberal Arts and Sciences, but successful implementation required hard work, the ability to place students in meaningful internships and a willingness to abandon older areas of study, qualities which were not abundant in the school at this point. Thus, traditional art, music, biology, speech and philosophy majors were added to the liberal-arts curriculum. Some of these specializations, especially after the onset of the fiscal crisis, did not get approval from CUNY headquarters, but enough of them, when combined with the huge number adopted wholesale from the City College curriculum when the new college was established, led to a swollen, shapeless and deceptive (because the courses were rarely offered) catalogue.(18)
The matter of introductory courses presented another kind of problem. Although not totally different, the base curricula of the three schools that composed Baruch College were dissimilar enough to confuse students and make interschool transfer difficult. Since these basic courses were predominantly liberal-arts courses, it behooved that school to take the initiative in making change. Prospects, however, did not look good, because implementation of the changes would require more interschool cooperation than had thus far surfaced at 23rd Street. Fortunately, a serendipitous situation made it possible to overcome the latter difficulty, at least in the planning stage. The assistant deans of the School of Business and the School of Liberal Arts and the assistant to the dean of the School of Education saw eye to eye on the matter; with good will on all sides, they drafted a "common core" that was approved by the School of Education and the School of Liberal Arts. After much debate, however, the School of Business relegated the core proposal to the graveyard of new programs, the Joint Undergraduate Curriculum Committee, where it died.
Why was the School of Business faculty, as a whole, opposed? The "common core" would not have revolutionized education at Baruch (the Chinese menu format was retained), but two of its objectives awakened their long-held fears. It was hoped that the new core would encourage students to sample several different areas of study so that they might "broaden their intellectual horizons and make a wise specialization choice." Because the requirements were now somewhat more structured, the core would "allow the student to postpone his choice of degree objective." As it had thirty years earlier, when returning veterans had crowded 23rd Street and made it necessary for first- and second-year students to study in the College of Liberal Arts at City College uptown, the School of Business faculty was trying to avert the seduction of its students by liberal arts.(19)
The advent of Open Admissions did not have much impact on the curriculum since, as we have seen, so many students spent their first year or longer in remedial courses. When they were ready the survivors registered for the unchanged mainstream curriculum and faced the problem of meeting the College's retention standards. There were dissidents in both schools, but the response of the faculty as a whole to the very real problems of teaching underprepared young people had been to tighten standards for retention and graduation so that, as Wingfield had promised, the caliber of the graduates would not suffer. One of the severest critics of stricter standards was Donald Smith, the unofficial spokesman for minority students and faculty, who charged that the faculty and administration welcomed the money and lines that Open Admissions brought but not the students that came with the funds. There was more than a little truth in his statement.
Many of the new entrants did not survive because the faculty, alone in CUNY, refused to give credit for remedial work. They also refused to relax requirements and grading standards, which proved to be too stringent for many of the freshmen, especially those who were at Baruch because of the ranking provision that allowed them to enter with high-school averages of less than 80. Requirements were actually increased; the number of quality points needed to be in good standing was raised to 2.0 or better.(20)
Although hundreds of students left the college voluntarily, and many others were placed on probation and later debarred, fears that the quality of the student body would deteriorate as a result of Open Admissions led the faculty and administration to adopt special programs that would attract better-prepared students. Both schools offered scholarships as well as early admissions to gifted high school juniors. The School of Business also proffered an accelerated BBA/ MBA, which, because it allowed a student to take graduate work in his senior year, made it possible to achieve two degrees in the time usually needed for one.
The School of Liberal Arts and Sciences, not to be outdone in the pursuit of the "best and the brightest," was happy to award college credit to students who had done well in the advanced placement examinations given in some high schools. The school also offered independent study as an alternative to the large lecture and recitation classes, which were believed to dampen the enthusiasm and initiative of able students. Occasionally, these one-to-one sessions culminated in an important research paper, which, if it passed muster after scrutiny by the College Honors Committee, was celebrated at a special awards ceremony and noted on the successful student's diploma. By these various carrot-and-stick devices, the faculty achieved its goals. In 1976, after six years of Open Admissions, 25 percent of the graduates received their degree with one or another kind of cum laude, in spite of the fact that the grade point average for graduation honors had been raised.(21)
The honors program added eclat to the college Bulletin but touched comparatively few students. Unfortunately and increasingly, it was remedial mathematics, writing, reading and speech that preoccupied the masses of freshmen who arrived at 23rd Street each September and February. Responsibility for their success in these courses fell primarily on the shoulders of the Compensatory Education Department, whose nucleus was the staff assembled in 1968 to manage the SEEK program. Behind the acronym lay a plan to "Search for Education, Elevation and Knowledge," which at its start enrolled only fifty-six day-session and seven evening-session students and was temporarily directed by the dean of students. Six months later, one of the very few black faculty then at Baruch, Thomas Gardner of the management department, took over. In addition, one full-time counsellor, one part-time counsellor and three English instructors composed the entire staff.
A year later, much had changed. A staff of seventeen now served 280 students. When Open Admissions began the following year, the SEEK people were joined with ten more counsellors, two additional English teachers and five more mathematics and reading teachers to make up a greatly enlarged large Department of Compensatory Education. The growth continued, as did the number of students they assisted. In 1971, 696 SEEK students and 500 Open Admissions students (defined as needing remediation in two areas) used the resources of the department; by 1973 there were 1,478.(22)
Beginning in 1972, under the leadership of Marie Jean Lederman, an expert in the teaching of writing, a new remedial approach was adopted. Instead of three different courses, taught by three separate instructors, those students who needed help in reading, writing and speech were now placed in a program named Communications Skills, which was intended to "coordinate the language skills of reading, writing and speaking by breaking down arbitrary separation of those skills and to present students with a coordinated approach to the English language." Students were placed in classes of fifteen and taught by a team of instructors who "jointly planned the term's work and evaluated the student's progress." At its start, it was totally noncredit, but by December 1973, seven credits (three for Speech and four for written English) were permitted on the grounds that these two segments of Communications Skills took the place of the regular writing and speech courses a student was required to take.(23)
Communications Skills was controversial, hard to evaluate, and expensive. As a result, it became a victim of the fiscal crisis. It was eventually replaced by a modular series of English composition courses, reading instruction and supplementary classes called "study laboratories" taught by members of the Department of Compensatory Education. However named, remedial services and the people responsible for them remained a delicate problem for the College's administrators.
Tensions within the department was one source of difficulty but status was a more important factor. Department members were part of the instructional staff, eligible for a CCE (certificate of continuous employment, similar to tenure), but many of them did not teach and those who did were concerned with skills, not academic content. None was expected to do research or to publish. Some administrators suggested that they should be designated Higher Education Officers (HEO) and be ineligible for tenure, but this idea aroused great opposition and was soon dropped. There was no easy answer to the "neither fish nor fowl" position of the department. In spite of the appointment of a well-trained and competent chairman, Audrey Williams, Compensatory Education remained a troubled and alienated part of the College.
Open Admissions, as we shall see, technically ended with state financing of the senior colleges and the onset of tuition in 1976, but in reality there was no change in admission policy at Baruch or elsewhere in CUNY. As Wingfield had said, in spite of the fears expressed when it began, Open Admissions proved to be a blessing to the struggling new college. Because the entire admission and allocation process began with student choice and Baruch's BBA program was so popular, the college was able to keep its cut-off point for admission relatively high and at the same time keep up its FTE credits, leading in turn to bigger budgets. Indeed, it led to good results all around. As its popularity increased and the percentage of new entrants with high-school averages of over 80 grew larger, more were retained. Overall, however, when compared to the rest of CUNY, Baruch's retention, graduation and return rates were low. Fewer students remained enrolled, graduated or resumed their education than at any other CUNY college. In spite of this, Baruch became the choice of more and more applicants.(24)
Perhaps its somber record was one of the reasons why students were attracted to 23rd Street; because it was known as a "tough" school, a diploma from Baruch was assumed to be harder to earn and therefore had greater value. More likely, however, the School of Business attracted students because the professions for which it prepared them appeared to offer upward mobility and because the study of business, nationwide, became more and more respectable and appealing as the seventies wore on. In any case, Open Admissions, initially alarming, came to be highly valued.
Like most public policies, however, an evaluation of its impact resembled the accounting ledgers so prominent at Baruch. Growth was the profit, but what were the losses? On balance, the college came out ahead, but the debits were significant. Many of the students admitted since 1970 would have been qualifying nonmatriculants prior to that date, limited, as we have seen, to evening session classes until they demonstrated their ability to do college level work. Most nonmatriculants did not make it and either dropped out or remained in limbo for years. What they could not do--that is, attend day-session classes with more qualified students--was now, under Open Admissions, possible.
As a result, the quality of the education offered in these classes deteriorated. Always allowing for individual differences, it became more difficult, in general, to conduct classes on what most people would assume to be a college level. Perhaps a third of the students would be sufficiently prepared; the rest would be lost. It also became more difficult to give lengthy reading assignments or essay examinations or demand term papers. No matter how determined an instructor was to maintain standards, he or she could not fail three-fourths of the class; thus an insidious process of comparative grading took hold. Student Smith did not really deserve a B, indeed in earlier years he would barely make a C. But now, compared to Student Jones, who appeared to have learned nothing, Smith seemed like a better than average performer and was rewarded accordingly. The least able students dropped out of college entirely but many an earnest, plodding, rote learner remained and eventually earned a degree.
Perhaps this had to be; the entire course of American educational history pointed in the direction of more and more diploma and degree holders as American society became more and more credentialized. Perhaps it was even a good thing; the quality of learning was diluted but more people received their share of it. A nagging question that persists, however, is, was Open Admissions necessary? Was it the best way to provide a route out of the ghetto and the lower echelons of the working class?
Historical evidence indicates that other paths might have been as much or more rewarding for society as a whole. The Eastern European Jewish experience in New York before World War I, for example, demonstrates that petty entrepreneurship could be a most successful first step out of poverty, followed by higher education when the family had established an economic base. Eastern European Jews, as a group, used the New York City public schools more than any other immigrant cohort. They also stayed in school longer, achieved higher grades and used formal education to move into the middle class. For these reasons, when poverty was discovered in the sixties, their experience was seen as a model for the black and Hispanic poor to follow. It is, however, a model that needs to be qualified.
Large numbers of Eastern European Jews did not begin to use secondary or higher education, including attendance at the municipal colleges, until just after World War I. The Jewish names that appear among the City College graduates of the late 19th and early 20th centuries belong to German Jews whose parents had arrived in New York City many years earlier and had used their time in the United States to achieve economic security. Not until the Russo-Polish Jews were able to achieve a minimal economic base and thus do without the income their children could earn, did their sons (and even less their daughters) utilize the benefits of free secondary schools and colleges. How did they reach this minimal security? By peddling, working in small Mom and Pop stores, subcontracting in the garment industry and benefiting from the unionization of that industry after 1910. Some of these paths might have worked for blacks and Hispanics in later decades.
No historical analogy is perfect; the city and its people have changed greatly since heavy Eastern European Jewish immigration began, and the culture and history of the underprivileged groups of today is also far different. But the question persists. What would have happened if Jewish entrepreneurial success rather than their somewhat exaggerated educational success had been used as the model of healthy adjustment for an outgroup? It is conceivable that the same amount of money, when used to provide guaranteed loans, help with mortgages and subsidies (such as had been done since the 1920's for farmers) might have been at least as useful as doing what Vice-Chancellor Hyman, in a moment of exasperation, had advised.(25)
One of the unfortunate side effects of Open Admissions was the financial burden it placed on New York City. Although the city bore only part of the cost, there can be no doubt that when added to already shaky municipal finances, Open Admissions helped to bring on the municipal fiscal crisis of 1975-1976, which in turn almost brought about the complete downfall of the City University and all its components, including Baruch. Much has been written on the causes of New York City's near bankruptcy in 1976, but the basic arguments seem to boil down to two: because of geographic shifts of capital and population the city lost much of its tax base; at the same time, the need for city services increased.
This was a conjunction of developments which, when added to incompetent and dishonest accounting practices, political cowardice, federal hostility, a world-wide inflation and the apparently unlimited willingness of bankers to lend, at a profit, all the money that the city wanted, brought New York to the brink of default in the fiscal year 1975-1976. Opinions differed regarding the weight to give to the various factors, but on one point there was virtually unanimous agreement: the city, in terms of what it had been spending on services, had been living beyond its means. One of these services was CUNY,which became a special target because it charged no tuition, had opened its doors to all and cost a great deal to operate.
Concern over forthcoming costs led the Board of Higher Education to establish a Citizens' Commission on the Future of the City University of New York in 1968. It was chaired by former mayor Robert Wagner, Jr., and had nineteen other members drawn from the various segments of New York City--blacks, Hispanics, women, labor, banking, etc. The commission's recommendations (with only Louis Yavner, who had been an advisor to Fiorello La Guardia in the thirties, dissenting) was to keep free tuition and gradually increase the state's contribution from its current 50 percent (matched by the same amount from the city) to 75 percent. In return for greater state aid on operating costs, CUNY would overhaul its fee structure and use the money so collected for the CUNY Construction Fund, thus releasing the state from its current obligation to guarantee the fund's bonds. Yavner disagreed and suggested another route: equalize the state's contribution to SUNY and CUNY and equalize the costs to students, that is, charge tuition at the municipal colleges.(26)
Both the majority report and Yavner's dissent gathered dust, and the costs of CUNY to the city multiplied. Between 1960 and 1975, New York's spending on higher education had increased by 1,258 percent, going from $45 million to $612.4 million. When this is compared to a mere 393 percent increase in spending for the city as a whole and we realize that most of the money was drawn from a shrinking tax base, it is easy to see why CUNY was a major target for retrenchment when the banks would lend no more and the city's bonds could not be sold.(27)
At that point, the city could not pay its share of CUNY operating costs (which, because of a matching proviso established in 1965, meant that the state share also decreased), and a new arrangement had to be made. A special committee of the Regents came up with a number of recommendations in late 1975. Like the Wagner Commission before it, the Regents' Committee recommended that the state increase its support to CUNY by stages, reaching 75 percent by 1980. Unlike the Wagner Commission, however, it recommended tuition, listing modest sums similar to those charged at SUNY colleges. Also, as was true for SUNY students, federal stipends and state payment programs such as Basic Economic Opportunity Grants (BEOG) and the Tuition Assistance Program (TAP) would be available for those from low-income families. Middle-income parents could request a tuition waiver, and only the relatively scarce well-off students (family income over $25,000) would get no aid at all.
Even a superficial examination of this plan indicates that very little money would be saved. Why, then, was it proposed and later adopted? Because it satisfied political and psychological needs, not financial ones. The appearance of tuition made it seem that CUNY was less of a drain on a hard-pressed city and that its students (mistakenly seen as almost all blacks and Hispanics) would now have to pay their own way. In the same vein and for the same reasons, the Regents recommended that Open Admissions be restricted to students more likely to benefit from college and that CUNY "prune" its offerings and start no new ones.(28)
When the crisis began in 1975, it was at first not a matter of great moment at 23rd Street, partly because Abraham Beame, long-time city comptroller and Baruch alumnus, was now mayor, and his former teachers had confidence in him. Boredom was another reason why no one at Baruch pushed the panic button at the start of the crisis. There had been a CUNY fiscal crisis every spring since 1971, each of which had been settled at the last moment by additional state and city contributions.
Furthermore, the most recent crisis, in 1974, had not caused any cutbacks at Baruch; indeed, its popularity had led to underfunding. Heavy registration had generated more FTE credits than had been expected and thus, in a sense, the Board of Higher Education owed the college money! For all these reasons, faculty and students, who had earlier complained of being used as "Ping Pong balls" in the annual battles between the city and Albany, assumed that 1975 was another "cry wolf' crisis that would be settled before September.
Wingfield's remarks to the general faculty in April of 1975, however, provided the first sign that this crisis might be different. "New York City had a serious cash flow problem," he said, and CUNY would have to make cuts.(29) When the president next spoke, in October, he sang a more alarming tune. The crisis had "arrived more swiftly than had been anticipated with an impact more devastating than even the gloomiest among us had contemplated."(30) During the summer, Baruch had to cut its 1975-1976 budget by $4.4 million which, he was happy to report, had been done without terminating any full-time teaching faculty.
The savings had been made mostly by increasing workloads for the full-time faculty, thus cutting the number of part-timers needed. Instructors and lecturers would now teach 15 hours a week, professors 12. Additional teaching for extra compensation would be avoided, and adjuncts, who were less expensive, would be used to cover classes. Some librarians, counsellors, HEOs and other non-teaching staff were "discontinued." Costs had been further reduced by normal attrition and non-reappointments. These cuts were not superficial; in the School of Liberal Arts alone, they resulted in eighty-four vacant lines. Maintenance workers were another casualty. Faculty at 17 Lexington Avenue were told to empty their own trash baskets. If these steps were all that was necessary, Wingfield thought that Baruch could manage quite well. Unfortunately, it was almost certain that further cuts would be needed. Still, he ended his report on an upbeat note and said, "The City University will not wither away and within it, Baruch intends to become stronger, not weaker."(31)
Chancellor Robert Kibbee, who had taken charge of CUNY when Bowker departed in 1971, expected to meet the crisis by various cost-cutting methods but by February 1976, it was clear that Kibbee would not have time to take such steps. The city could not not come up with funds to cover even a much-reduced CUNY budget, and the state would not do so. As a result, Wingfield told the faculty, Baruch was now required to cut an additional $1.5 million from its budget; while this might be done "without disrupting full-time faculty, nearly everything else would be affected." Furthermore, rumors that CUNY might have to furlough its staff later in the spring because it could not pay them were likely to prove true.(32)
By now, the faculty understood that this fiscal crisis was unlike any other and bombarded the president with questions relating to Baruch's future, all of which Wingfield answered reassuringly. If mergers were necessary, he told them, Baruch would be the recipient of existing programs, not the one to be merged. Non-tenured faculty reappointed for fall 1976 would almost certainly keep their jobs. Plans for a new building and campus would surely be delayed, but as long as enrollments stayed up, as they showed every sign of doing, Baruch was safe. In general, as Aaron Levenstein, the PSC Chapter chairman and frequent critic of the administration said, Wingfield's leadership during this tense moment in CUNY history was superb; the clarity of his reports and the details he provided scotched rumors and defused much anxiety.(33)
As it turned out, Wingfield was mostly right. The university closed down in early June; there was a two-week period for which its faculty was not paid until almost a decade later. The federal government remained largely aloof, but an additional $14 million in state aid had been forthcoming once it was agreed that tuition would be imposed. CUNY would now be much more a creature of the state, but this was good news for Baruch because, unlike the Board of Higher Education, the state did not apportion on the basis of the past (thus favoring the older senior colleges) but rather on the basis of actual students. In spite of the announced curtailment of Open Admissions and the imposition of tuition, Baruch continued to have a large enrollment.
After the 1976 crisis had abated, another threat appeared on the horizon. The legislature established a Temporary State Commission on the Future of Post-Secondary Education in New York, chaired by Nils Wessell, a member of the Board of Regents. After due deliberation, the commission recommended an entirely new structure for public higher education in the Empire State. Among other changes, the report proposed that Baruch become a "second tier" College of Business, ranked below the four older senior colleges and the state university centers.
Baruch was praised in the report, but this did not make up for the commission's ignorance of its Liberal Arts and Education units and the relegation of the institution as a whole to second-class citizenship. Fortunately from the College's point of view, the Wessell Commission's recommendations were not adopted. Neither was another threat realized: tuition did not drastically reduce enrollments. But the crisis did leave the faculty shaken, and their insecurity was increased when Wingfield, who had shown such strength and leadership during the worst days of the previous two years, resigned to become the provost of the University of Miami in Florida. Unlike Weaver, he did not give lack of resources or any other outside cause as the reason for his departure but said that he was leaving for personal and professional reasons. Most people at Baruch, however, believed that he was leaving as a result of his failure to achieve what he had said was his first priority, a permanent campus for the college.(34)
Thanks to the temporary acquisition of vacated Cathedral High School at 50th Street and Lexington Avenue (the Ticker called it Baruch North), now being used as a freshman center, full usage of the 24th Street building and the additional floors at 26 E. 26th Street (acquired after John Jay College moved to 59th Street in 1972), Baruch actually had more space per FTE credits than did Hunter or Brooklyn College. The latter, however, had construction underway with much more planned, whereas Baruch was mired in the controversial plan to move to the Atlantic Terminal site in Brooklyn at some unspecified point in the future.
Administrators, alumni and most of the faculty had consistently opposed such a move, but it remained in the CUNY Master Plan until the Board of Higher Education voted to abandon it in January 1972 and amended the plan accordingly. The reasons behind this step were several: an engineering study of the site, proposed by Wingfield, indicated that due to the difficulties of building on a raised platform over the Long Island Railroad tracks (an integral part of the proposal), another $27 million dollars would be needed to construct the campus. In addition, the expansion of Brooklyn College and the creation of a new four-year college (Medgar Evers) more than met the need for additional facilities in Brooklyn. Also, a glut of office space in Manhattan had lowered prices, making it feasible to buy an already constructed building in an area much more convenient to the workplace of so many of the professional faculty, graduate students and part-time undergraduates.
Although it was understood that the Board of Regents had the last word on master plan amendments, given the green light from 80th Street, the search was on. One of the first sites considered was very close to 17 Lexington Avenue: the Catholic Charities Building at the corner of 22nd Street and Lexington Avenue. Only a little further away but still in east midtown was the Blue Cross building at 80 Lexington Avenue. Further uptown, but a great bargain, was an almost completed building at 6th Avenue and 46th Street, which the Tishman Corporation (the builders) and Citibank (who had issued the construction loan) were anxious to unload. According to Eli Mason, who was president of the Baruch College Fund and active in the negotiations when the building came on the market in 1975, the forty-story structure could be acquired for $3 million cash (a sum he was sure the Baruch Fund could raise) and the assumption of a $30 million mortgage held by the Teacher's Insurance and Annuity Association pension program (TIAA).
The top eight stories would have become the new home of CUNY headquarters, enabling them to move from inconvenient 80th Street and East End Avenue, and the remaining 32 floors would be for Baruch. Wingfield was most anxious for the deal to go through, but it never even reached the Board of Higher Education. When Vice-Chancellor Seymour Hyman, present at a crucial meeting by virtue of his responsibilities for space and building, raised questions about funds to furnish and equip the new building, Citibank realized that the proposed sale could take months, even years to arrange. Since their desire was to relieve themselves, as quickly as possible, of a bad loan, they sought other possible customers who were unencumbered by bureaucratic procedures.(35)
This disappointment followed another, better-publicized one and together made up a bitter pill for Wingfield to swallow. Even before the Board of Higher Education had decided against the Brooklyn site, but when it seemed likely that it would, Wingfield had located his dream campus and had begun negotiations for its purchase. The building was a forty-story structure at Broad and Pearl Streets, known as Two New York Plaza. At the time that the president was looking, it could be had for $60 million and would be ready for occupancy a year later. Obstacles, however, surfaced immediately: the Regional Plan Association feared that 7,000 day-session students would choke the already overburdened lower Manhattan transportation system, angry protests from Pace and NYU were heard in Albany and it was there, in the offices of the Board of Regents, that the decision to approve the change in the Master Plan would have to be made.
Why were Pace and NYU so opposed? The former did not offer an MBA program but feared the Baruch would "poach" on its undergraduate students. The latter feared that Baruch with its low graduate tuition, no undergraduate tuition (this was three years before the fiscal crisis), and lowered admission requirements would decimate their evening-session enrollments. Recognizing their fears, Wingfield made a public offer to freeze graduate enrollment for three years and thereafter "track growth on a one-to-one ratio with NYU and raise graduate tuition to the Pace-NYU level." In deference to Pace's concerns, Baruch would also restrict evening-session enrollments. To both institutions Wingfield offered shared facilities and expertise.(36)
His words did not satisfy his two academic opponents, but even if they had, the political pressure to make the college move to the Atlantic Terminal site would probably have defeated Wingfield's plan. Governor Rockefeller was silent, and newly elected Abraham Beame (in spite of receiving a diploma and two degrees from Baruch) waited as long as he could but finally came out for the Brooklyn site. Aside from the fact that he was himself a member of the Brooklyn Democratic machine, Brooklyn politicians were a dominant force in both the City Council and the Board of Estimate, and it is possible to see why the recently elected mayor could not oppose them.
Downtown Brooklyn community groups also put much pressure on elected officials. As they had made clear in 1968, they wanted the college to anchor the proposed redevelopment of the Atlantic Terminal area, and in particular, to use the acres it would require as a substitute for the 2,400 low-income apartments proposed for the urban-renewal project. The issue came to a head in December 1973, when the Regents were considering the matter. Baruch mobilized all its resources: students and parents were urged to write letters, the Alumni Association prepared a powerful report that attracted much attention from the New York Times and a long article in New York Magazine, the faculty paid for a full-page advertisement in the Times, and Wingfield sent a long, well-written letter to the Regents.
The arguments, repeated again and again, were simple: Brooklyn no longer needed another senior college, Baruch students came from all boroughs in almost equal numbers so a Brooklyn location, useful to some, would be a problem to many, especially evening-session students, 76 percent of whom worked below 60th Street. Furthermore, New York Plaza would be ready in a year but the Atlantic Terminal campus would require ten years. In the meantime, Baruch had only half the space recommended by the Regents per FTE credit student, and the Manhattan site would cost half as much as it would to build in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, all the arguments and hoopla were to no avail. On December 15, 1973, the Regents said that Brooklyn was best for Baruch and refused to change the master plan.
Three days later the Board of Higher Education accepted defeat and announced that the State Dormitory Authority would build a fifteen-acre campus on the Atlantic Terminal site, to be completed by 1980. Everything, including the estimated cost (from $73 million to $120 million) began to move after this. The City Planning Commission gave its approval to the architectural plans drawn up in 1974. The Board of Estimate did not blink at the higher price presented to them and without the fiscal crisis, Baruch might today be sitting atop the Long Island Railroad tracks in Brooklyn. But of course, there was a fiscal crisis, and it began before the city and state budget directors could give their expected approval. Along with many other plans, Baruch's new campus disappeared in the disaster. The best the college could get was a promise that when the Family Court building on 22nd Street was vacated, it would be theirs with money for renovation.(37)
On the surface, Clyde Wingfield seemed to accept his defeat in good spirit. He told the faculty that the acquisition of additional space at 26 E. 26th Street from John Jay College (about to move uptown) would solve Baruch's short-run space problems, and he told the Ticker that although a move to Two New York Plaza would have been faster, in the long run the college would be better off with more spacious facilities in Brooklyn. In spite of his cheery words, everyone at the college knew of his bitter disappointment and assumed that this was a major reason for his resignation. If there had been no fiscal crisis, he might have left earlier. When circumstances for the city, for CUNY and for Baruch became difficult, however, his sense of responsibility kept him at 23rd Street until the worst of the storm had passed. This is one of the main reasons that Wingfield goes down as one of the best leaders in Baruch's long history.
As the huge crowd that turned out for his farewell dinner (held in the Tower Suite of the Time-Life building) testified, he had friends in the many different segments that made up the Baruch community. Among them were members of the Alumni Association, which grew markedly both in terms of membership and activity in the early 1970's, partly because the president cultivated, consulted and made sure to thank its members. Beginning in October 1972, Baruch Today included alumni news, guaranteeing wider readership of the newsletter and assuring that the alumni knew of the accomplishments of the faculty and administration.
Raising non-tax levy funds from the alumni was a major Wingfield preoccupation. To increase the giving, special categories of donors were established and well-publicized. Baruch Fellows, for example, were the most generous, having given $1,000 or more in one year. Most of the money was raised through an annual phonathon when alumni, students and faculty volunteers spent a week of evenings calling alumni (a directory had been compiled and was published in February 1975) urging them to contribute. Their arguments were quite effective during the crisis years of 1975-1976, but even when state control brought financial stability and resumed growth, the phonathon raised considerable sums, much of it used for the "quality of life" programs that enriched life at 23rd, 24th and 26th Streets.
Wingfield acknowledged alumni support in his final remarks to the faculty and in that same speech discussed what he considered to have been his greatest contributions: "enrollment, faculty, [and] until last year, the budget all have doubled." The college was reorganized, a new school added, Liberal Arts was strengthened, and education in the administrative sciences, graduate and undergraduate, had expanded. The list, except for his words on liberal arts, was accurate, but he had left out something important. In contrast to his predecessors, Wingfield had modernized college procedures (the Phonathon, for example, was widely used by colleges nationwide for many years before Baruch adopted it), and he had focused faculty attention more on the College's future and less on its past. In these ways, Clyde Wingfield brought Baruch College into modern times.(38)
(1) Baruch Today, April 6, 1970; April 12, 1971; March 18, 1975; Lexicon, 1969; Baruch College, General Faculty, "Minutes," December 6, 1971; Baruch College, Office of the Registrar, "Enrollment by Division," fall semesters, 1968-1987.
(2) Baruch Today, March 4, 1975; September 22, 1975; November 16, 1973; Baruch College, School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," October 14, 1975; Middle States Commission, Institutions of Higher Education, "Evaluation Report on Visitation to Baruch College of the City of New York," 1972, p. 15.
(3) Baruch Today, October 8, 1974; November 16, 1973.
(4) Middle States Commission, "Evaluation," 6.
(5) Baruch Today, October 6, 1971. Baruch Today reprinted Wingfield's letter to Rockefeller on February 1, 1972.
(6) "Enrollment by Division," 1970-1975.
(7) Baruch Today, June 30, 1976; Ticker, May 2, 1973; September 25, 1975.
(8) Baruch College, Office of Personnel and Affirmative Action, "Analysis of Female and Minority Staff," 1971-1986, p. 47; Baruch Today, September 28, 1971; April 30, 1974.
(9) Baruch Today, November 28, 1972; General Faculty, "Minutes," April 19, 1972; October 25, 1972; Ticker, December 5, 1972.
(10) Baruch College, "Self-Study Report for the Middle States Association, Administration and Governance" (Chart), March 1972; Baruch Today, November 9, 1971; September 20, 1972; October 31, 1972; January 3, 1973; October 3, 1972.
(11) General Faculty, "Minutes," May 3, 1976; October 20, 1971; Baruch College, School of Education, "Minutes," October 21, 1976; Baruch Today, February 15, 1972; May 9, 1972; April 2, 1974; June 24, 1974; May 25, 1976; December 22, 1976.
(12) Author's Interview with Gerald Leinwand, September 16, 1987; Author's Interview with Helen Robison, August 28, 1987; School of Education, "Minutes," December 5, 1973; October 23, 1974; Baruch Today. November 6, 1974; School of Business, "Minutes," May 13, 1975.
(13) School of Education, "Minutes," September 25, 1973; October 21, 1975; December 15, 1976; June 5, 1973; February 26, 1976.
(14) School of Education, "Minutes," March 1, 1977; May 16, 1977.
(15) Baruch Today, September 28, 1971; April 25, 1972 (contains quote); May 14, 1974; September 11, 1973; November 9, 1971.
(16) Baruch Today, September 18, 1974; December 17, 1974; September 24, 1974; June 30, 1976; September 20, 1972.
(17) Clyde J. Wingfield, Report to the Board of Higher Education on the Status of Baruch College, August 31, 1975, pp. 16-17; "Self-Study Report for Middle States Association," 1972, p. 29; School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," December 9, 1971; Baruch Today, November 7, 1973; April 2, 1974; April 6, 1976; June 3, 1978.
(18) School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," May 22, 1973; February 7, 1972; May 21, 1974; December 16, 1975; December 13, 1972; February 26, 1973.
(19) School of Business, "Minutes," February 11, 1975; February 27, 1973; May 9, 1974; School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," January 6, 1975; May 2, 1974; May 22, 1973; February 7, 1972; May 17, 1977; Memorandum from Professor Harold Shane, Chairman of the School of Liberal Arts Curriculum Committee, "A Proposal for a Common Freshman Core," October 21, 1974; Baruch Today, February 18, 1975.
(20) School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," December 9, 1971; Jerry Rosenberg, "Some Pertinent Data Regarding Day Session Freshmen and the Rate of Attrition," 1973; School of Business, "Minutes," June 8, 1970; January 4, 1979; October 2, 1974; City University of New York, Office of Program and Policy Research, "Distribution of Grades, 1971-1974," March 1976.
(21) School of Liberal Arts, "Minutes," December 9, 1971; School of Business, "Minutes," May 9, 1974; Baruch Today, June 30, 1976.
(22) John Mitchem, et al., "Meeting the Challenge of Open Admissions at the Bernard M. Baruch College," April 1974, passim.
(23) Marie Jean Lederman, "Launching a Remedial Reading, Writing, Speech Program: Titanic or 'Good Ship' Lollypop?" Paper prepared for the City University Conference on Open Admissions, 1975.
(24) City University of New York, Office of Programs and Policy Research, Barry Kaufman and Rena Botwinick, "Student Retention and Graduation At the City University of New York," June 1975, p. 28.
(25) Selma Berrol, "The Open City: Jews, Jobs and Schools," in Educating an Urban People, Diane Ravitch and Ronald Goodenow, eds. (New York: Teachers College Press, 1980), 101-115.
(26) Citizens' Commission on the Future of the City University of New York, "Report," September 1971, Section I, "Funding."
(27) Charles Morris, The Cost of Good Intentions (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1980), 45, 46.
(28) University of the State of New York, "A Report of the Regents on the City University of New York," December 11, 1975.
(29) Baruch Today, February 20, 1974; General Faculty, "Minutes," Sep-tember 30, 1974; April 16, 1975.
(30) Baruch Today, October 20, 1975.
(33) General Faculty, "Minutes," February 24, 1976.
(34) General Faculty, "Minutes," April 19, 1977; September 29, 1976.
(35) Baruch Today, September 28, 1971; April 24, 1973; February 1, 1972; April 24, 1973; December 18, 1973; General Faculty, "Minutes," Oc-tober 25, 1972; April 10, 1973; September 30, 1974; Ticker, September 12, 1972; Author's Interview with Eli Mason, July 19, 1987.
(36) General Faculty, "Minutes," October 25, 1972; Baruch Today, Feb-ruary 1, 1972; January 3, 1973; December 4, 1973; December 18, 1973; New York Times (December 13, 1973).
(37) General Faculty, "Minutes," December 3, 1973; October 20, 1975; September 29, 1976; Baruch Today, January 3, 1973; December 4, 1973; December 18, 1973; April 2, 1974; January 7, 1975; New York Times, December 4, 1973, 49:5; February 4, 1973, 93:1; December 6, 1973, 46:3; December 13, 1973, 43:4; December 14, 1973, 51:3; December 15, 1973, 37:5; January 16, 1973, 45:5; February 2, 1973, 82:1.
(38) Ticker, February 5, 1974; Baruch Today, February 4, 1975, May 13, 1975; February 27, 1976; September 14, 1976.