In the early 1980s, when I was in graduate school and living in Boston, my wife Rachel and I drove out to my sister-in-law’s graduation from Smith College. We were newlyweds. I was raised in a working-class family, and Rachel and my sister-in-law were the daughters of the theologian Ronald Goetz. How Rachel and I met, and the effect Professor Goetz had on me, is a subject for another day. But during my first year or so at Harvard, I was astounded by the tremendous wealth and privilege that I could never have conceived of while growing up in a working-class family in Chicago.
As astounded as I was by the wealth in Cambridge, Massachusetts, what I encountered at Smith College was beyond my comprehension. Many of the young women who attended the college seemed stinking rich. My sister-in-law Rebecca was the exception. She was admitted without the sort of money or connections I assumed were necessary to get someone into a place like that. The ostentatious wealth of the place—where the students ate on china—was matched only by the radicalism of the politics. I remember green ribbons because the Atlanta child murders were still very much in the news. There were signs and slogans everywhere, and a lot of chubby coeds in Indian-print skirts, which contrasted with the more formal dress of the parents who attended. My mother-in-law, who was sitting next to me, whispered in my ear that to my right was Gloria Steinem. I had heard the name before but knew almost nothing about her. To my amazement, she was attractive.
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