1975 Annalist's Letter
Good morning, everyone — President Tepper, faculty, friends and family, and most of all, the Class of 1975, who have returned to the Hill one more time to celebrate, reminisce, and renew.
I am honored to deliver the Annalist Letter for our class, with help from my friends Bill Hooke and Kevin McTernan. Bill and Kevin — please stand to be recognized.
I thank the members of the 50th Reunion Committee — especially our chair, Peter Lotto — and Jeremy Katz, the College archivist, and Victoria Kidd, Jacke Jones, and Jess Zielinski of the College’s Alumni Office. Thanks to everyone who answered the reunion surveys. And a special thank you to my creative writing professor John O’Neill, who gave me a reality check on some recollections and who is present here today with his wife, Mary.
What is an annalist, anyway? The first annalists were ancient Roman historians. They recounted a leader’s reign year by year by year — hence the word, “annales.” Seems a boring way to recount the past.
Julius Caesar was his own annalist. It is said he wrote annals to extol his triumphs and excuse his blunders. Now, that sounds right.
To begin, I’d like everyone to consider their phone. We all have them. We’re joined at the hip with them. Try to remember a time when we didn’t have at hand a telephone, a camera, a computer, and a whole broadcast operation. That time was our time on College Hill. We weren’t connected the way we are today, the way students are today, by a web of alerts, texts, and posts.
But we were tied to each other all the same. Because, on this Hill, we lived and learned and played together. There were no words stored in clouds. We held words in our hands. We folded words. Shoved them in our pockets. Pounded them out on typewriters. Scratched and scrawled them with pens and pencils. We didn’t delete them. We erased them with rubber and Wite-Out.
We wrote letters home to our parents and, in the beginning, to our high school sweethearts. If we wanted a ride home one weekend, we posted a note on a bulletin board in the Bristol mailroom or in McEwen Dining Hall, and hoped someone with a car was headed our way. If we were looking for someone, we’d call his room — if he was one of the few who had a phone — it wasn’t cheap. Or we’d call the lobby phone on the chance someone answered and shouted down the hall for a response. Or we’d just go find him.
Before Spotify and Apple Music, we owned milk crates of LPs. We had stereos with speakers the size of a mini-fridge. And on warm Spring days, after the snow had long gone, or so we thought, we put them in the windows to share music — Loggins and Messina, Grateful Dead, The Moody Blues, Crosby, Stills & Nash (and Young), or, if we had taken Music 11-12 from Professor Stephen Bonta, we may have played Beethoven’s Pastorale or Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. No one had earbuds and walked around in sonal solitude. The music mixed with the breeze, the smell of pot, the passing cars, and the shouts of Frisbee-playing Loons. (The Loons weren’t birds; they were some of our more free-flying, or should I say high-flying, classmates.)
When something happened, we talked about it. We wrote about it. Rarely, was a camera there to capture it. We had no social media sites to post to, and garner clicks and likes. Most of those moments are found in our memory or a file in the College archives. Not on the internet, preserved for all and forever.
But some memories are strong. Remember when a Kirkland streaker ran through the Chapel? Or when a group of naked Hamilton men rode bicycles around the quad? Ouch!
We got campus news from The Spectator. (Watch out. That’s digitized.) And we learned about coming events at weekly chapel. Some of us put on skits. Bob Halligan and Dave Duggan shared their take on campus news. We got Population Center updates from Dow Brophy. We called him the “condom king.” Some of us wondered, who were those guys who used all those condoms?
We wrote checks. And used cash. Remember cash? When we needed more cash, we went to Buttrick and cashed checks. Or we went down to Clinton to the Hayes National Bank. Many of us got our first checkbook there.
Personal computers? No such thing. Microsoft was founded just two months before we graduated. Apple Computer was founded a year later. Texas Instruments introduced the first handheld calculator the end of our freshman year. They were a big deal and expensive for the few who got them. Hamilton had no computer center until 1974, led by Math Professor David Smallen. It was tucked away in Burke Library’s basement. Few humanities majors got near it. We went to college in the age of Smith Corona, Underwood, Remington, and for those with a dash of style — Olivetti. Some of us even had electric typewriters.
In that analog age, we arrived on the Hill in September 1971. We came from different directions. Some might have taken Amtrak or Mohawk Airlines. But many of us came by the Thruway. From the Westmoreland exit, down 233 until it turns into Bristol Road, the drive is just 10 minutes. But it always felt longer. Almost there, but not yet. Until the corner and right turn at College Hill Road. As the car down-shifted and groaned up the Hill, past the stone shed, Bundy, Psi U, and Chi Psi, we knew we arrived on the most picture-perfect campus there is.
In September 1971, the journey was filled with what ifs, will I’s, can I’s. But we knew this was where we belonged. Hamilton was it. This was where we wanted to be.
Until Dunham. What Professor Thomas Johnston called a “triumph of economy over imagination” — 240 young men crammed into cell-block, I mean cinder-block, suites. Some freshmen our year weren’t sentenced, I mean selected, for Dunham. They were housed in South Dorm. Including the three of us. We had a two-room suite. A working fireplace. One room for studying and relaxing, and one room for sleeping.
Life at Dunham wasn’t so refined. One example: Although dogs seemed to run free at Kirkland, pets were not permitted at Hamilton. Yet, Dusty Batley adopted a cat and kept the litter box out in the hall at Dunham. Until one day he made a disturbing discovery. Either a lion had escaped from the Utica Zoo to use the kitty’s litter box, or a prankish classmate decided to act like a feline and leave a deposit.
Dave Brody recalled entering the bathroom at Dunham one night to find a classmate passed out on the floor at the base of a toilet with a pillow under his head. Apparently, the fellow’s roommate found him there, and when he wouldn’t stir, got his pillow to protect his head. The smells weren’t sweet, but at least he had a single that night.
Jay Emmons called living in Dunham “a baptism by fire.” But also a lesson in learning to get along with others. John Zaehringer, Class of ’73, who sadly passed away last year, was called “Nake” — short for Naked Q. Body — because he was locked out of his Dunham room in a state of nature. The name followed him.
Other classmates got nicknames. “Raldo: for John (not Ralph Waldo) Emerson. “Wheels” for Bill Ferris. Professors and others had nicknames, too: Professor David “Spoolie” Ellis. “Coach Von Coach” for Coach Manfred Von Schiller. Dr. Leon “Death” Roe of the health center. Most of the nicknames were fine. Others not so much. I won’t mention those. Let’s just say we were young and unaware.
Dorm life wasn’t the only adjustment we had to make. We had to adjust to Hamilton’s academic rigor. In high school, we were not all “good-looking,” but we were all “above-average.” Our median SATs were 630 verbal and 660 math. Hamilton turned away two out of three applicants, and there were nearly 1,400 — a new College record then. Almost nine out of 10 of us from public high schools finished in the top fifth of our class.
Yet, for the first time in our high-achieving lives, we learned that success was not pre-ordained. Dave Gilmore recalls that in freshman orientation, a dean delivered this fact: 50 percent of us were destined for the bottom half of the class. We didn’t have to be future math majors to get the point.
We soon learned that our professors made Hamilton special. They chose Hamilton because of their love of teaching. And we chose Hamilton because we wanted that love. Some of it was tough love. The most beloved professors were some of the most demanding. They had high expectations. That’s what Andy Sobel, now a professor himself, recalled about Gene Lewis, who introduced him to modern social science. Peter Regan recalled that Ivan Marki was awesome, despite his, let’s call it, candor.
Their love of the subject ran deep. Dan Trachtman remembers that Professor George Nesbitt, who retired after our freshman year, returned to teach an English course. Dan wrote, “At the end of the course, he read us the last few lines of John Milton’s ‘Lycidas.’ He wept. We were a little bewildered, I think. Now we all understand.”
Peter Regan recalled Professor Edwin Barrett crying while explaining Shakespeare’s genius. And Professor Bonta close to tears when he cancelled class because Louie Armstrong had died.
Our professors encouraged us to question authority, including them. Professor Bob Simon told us that he once delivered a lecture on the philosophy of science. He mistakenly referred to the father of modern science as Ga-LIL-e-o. Ga-LIL-e-o thought this. Ga-LIL-e-o wrote that. At the end of the lecture, a student came up to him and said, “Professor. I heard you say Ga-LIL-e-o. I didn’t know that all this time, I’ve mispronounced his name Gal-i-LAY-o.” Bob Simon encouraged us to challenge him and not assume he had all the answers, or the right pronunciation.
Our professors taught us to think critically. As Peter Lotto put it, “I think the most important lesson was to always ask the question to get to the ‘why,’ because the ‘what’ is often obvious.”
Our professors also knew us more than we knew.
Steve Krensky, who went on to be an esteemed and widely published children’s book author, recalls one telling event. He had studied with Natalie Babbitt, the award-winning children’s book author (and Sam Babbitt’s wife). Steve wanted to pursue a senior independent study in children’s book writing with Fred Wagner in the English Department. But Steve needed the approval of Professor and English Department Chair Dwight Lindley. Steve had never taken a class from Professor Lindley. Never talked to him. He had no idea how he would react. Professor Lindley was old school. Hamilton 1942. He could appear severe.
Steve saw the professor crossing the quad and decided to approach him with the form he needed signed. “Professor Lindley,” he said, “I’m Steve Krensky. I don’t know if you know me.” Before Steve could get in another word, the professor responded, “Yes. Yes. You are the children’s book writer.”
Though Steve would wait until he sold his first book to call himself a children’s book writer, the professor’s simple remark was encouraging and affirming. Steve had an identity to a professor he never met. That was Hamilton in a nutshell. Our professors got to know us and let us get to know them.
The surveys are full of stories of professors who encouraged us and set us on a path. Bob Evans and Lou Pacilio, who went on to be physicians, recall the difference made by Professor of Chemistry Robin Kinnel. Professor Sid Wertimer, who somehow knew us all by name the day we walked onto campus, sparked Stuart Lindsay’s interest in business.
In addition to those already mentioned, we recalled the impact made by Fred Wagner, Austin Briggs, and John O’Neill; Otto Liedke; David Price, Doug Raybeck, Grant Jones, and Don Grayson; Jay Williams; E.B. Lee; Jon Vaughan; Rand Carter; Warren Wright and Lafe Todd; Channing Richardson; Duncan Chiquoine. And Kirkland professors Stuart Liebman, Buddy Palusky, Nat Boxer, and Stephen Lipman. The list is long because the faculty was deep. And if more alumni had answered the survey, the list would be longer.
Some Hamilton people who made a difference were not faculty at all. Kevin McTernan recalls the influence of Father Paul Drobin, the Catholic chaplain our junior and senior years. Kevin wrote, “He was a kind and fun guy who offered a non-judgmental invitation to explore the life of the spirit.”
Our professors helped us find our strengths. To find our calling. Bob Halligan arrived at Hamilton thinking pre-law. We all are thankful that he took a different path and gave so many joy and happiness with his music.
Finding our strengths sometimes meant recognizing our weaknesses. John Emerson came to Hamilton thinking he would major in science. But he recounted recently that when his unknown specimen in biology died, he had second thoughts. He turned to philosophy, with Professors Russell Blackwood, Norm Bowie, and Bob Simon. And he studied German history with Professor Michael Haltzel. John went on to a career in law, finance, and government, most notably as an assistant to President Clinton and ambassador to Germany under President Obama.
And John’s connection with Professor Haltzel continued long after Hamilton. After the professor left Hamilton, he hosted John when he toured Germany after college. And when John was ambassador years later, he hosted the former professor at the ambassador’s residence.
John’s experience was not unique. Ben Ostrov, who became a political scientist and China scholar, had a lifelong relationship with Pete Suttmeier, who wrote a foreword to Ben’s book and helped Ben land a visiting professorship at the University of Oregon, where Pete later chaired the poli-sci department.
And Michael Horn developed a lasting friendship with Professor George Gescheider after assisting the professor on the first draft of his psychophysics textbook.
We came to Hamilton during a transitional period for the College. There were endings and new beginnings.
The faculty received a wave of young professors — John O’Neill, Pete Suttmeier, Derek Jones, and Michael Haltzel, to name a few. They sometimes seemed more our contemporaries than the senior faculty’s. They related to us, and us to them, in a way the senior faculty could not. And not just because we might see them in the Pub. And as the new professors arrived, longtime faculty retired: English professors Thomas Johnston and George Nesbitt, and physics professor George Cameron.
In the administration, we began with Dean Winton Tolles. I can still picture him. Rumpled suit. Cigarette hanging from his lips. Wry smile. Our freshman year ended a 25-year run. He embodied an era at Hamilton. He was succeeded by Dean Stephen Kurtz and Dean of Students Gordon Bingham. Then Professor Lindley followed Dean Kurtz after he resigned in our junior year to lead Exeter.
We started with John Wesley Chandler as president. An alum of Williams, he resigned in the spring of our sophomore year to take the presidency there. Who can forget that touching moment, when the vacationing President Chandler announced he was leaving us by a cassette-recorded message in chapel. Talk about “phoning it in.”
The College’s search for a successor led to the Joseph Sisco fiasco. Sisco accepted Hamilton’s offer on Dec. 8, 1973, and then withdrew his acceptance on Jan. 7 after Henry Kissinger offered him a promotion at the State Department. Even William Henry Harrison held the U.S. presidency longer than Joe Sisco held Hamilton’s, and Harrison had a good excuse — he died of pneumonia 31 days after inauguration.
Eventually, the College looked within and, in April, selected our provost and acting president, J. Martin Carovano, who led the College for 14 years.
There’s a story that goes with the Sisco fiasco. The search committee worked in secret. Some were unhappy with that and how the search was going. One insider leaked Sisco’s name to The Spectator’s editor-in-chief, Fred Bloch. And an administrator, perhaps accidentally but maybe on purpose, left sitting on his desk a search committee memo with another candidate’s name, a dean at Dartmouth, during a meeting with Spectator editor Henry Glick. Henry was adept at reading upside down. A skill with few uses, but handy then. The Spectator broke the news about the two candidates.
Acting President Carovano and Trustee Board Chairman Coleman Burke were irate. And the Student Senate voted to censure the paper. They believed the paper had a duty to withhold the information, to support the College and shield the candidates. The Spectator believed its duty was to publish, because the College community had a right to know, and informing the public ultimately served the College. And so, we echoed in a small way, the debate often repeated on the national stage when journalists decide that the benefits of informing the public outweigh the risks of disclosure. In the end, the College still got its man — that is until he left.
The College also changed physically during our days on the Hill. Those changes seem modest against the impressive building we see today, but they meant something to us. We began our studies in the James Library, with its dusty stacks and hidden corners, and its cathedral-like reading room. But we moved in our sophomore year to the gleaming new Daniel Burke Library. It had big cushy chairs on the second floor that invited napping more than reading. We spent frazzled hours working in the 24-hour reading room trying to finish a paper, or study for an exam, while carefree classmates stumbled by the giant windows on their way to bed.
When we arrived, the distinctive red shale paths still tied the campus together. But the budget-minded College gradually replaced them with asphalt.
The early 1970s were tough times for the economy — we had recession, inflation, and OPEC’s oil embargo. The endowment dropped from $27.6 million before we arrived to $26.5 million when we left. Imagine. Now it’s well over a billion dollars thanks to the generosity of alumni and friends, and to good management.
Our years were Kirkland’s heyday. It opened just three years before we arrived. But it was up and running. And we had no inkling of what would come just a few years after we graduated. We were Hamilton’s 159th entering class. Our Kirkland classmates were their college’s fourth. Hamilton followed traditions. Kirkland was making new ones. It expanded the curriculum — in the arts, social sciences, and humanities. But most of all, to us, Kirkland College meant we would share our college years with women. But this was not just any group of women. They chose a school that was just making its mark. They were risk-takers, academic adventurers, and feminists who raised our consciousness every day, or at least they tried. For most of us, I think, a Hamilton without Kirkland was not a college we would have attended.
We also arrived during a transitional period in our nation. The Vietnam War was dragging on, and we still had the war-time draft. In September of our freshman year, President Nixon signed legislation ending student deferments. The following Feb. 2, we gathered in Bristol Campus Center to hear the dates and lottery numbers for us 1953 babies. Those with low numbers went to physicals in Syracuse and other places later that year. Induction would come the next year. But the Paris Peace Accords were signed in January 1973 and we were spared. 1952 babies were the last called.
We honor the service and sacrifice of our classmates, and those before and after us, who volunteered to serve or answered the call to serve. Mark Fox was one of them, who enlisted in the Navy and returned to graduate with the Class of 1977. Bill Hooke recalls playing on the football team with Vietnam veterans Mac Abbey and John Bush. Bill recalls, “We were boys. But they were men.”
Politics did not consume the campus the way it had in the 1960s. The 1972 presidential election was the first for 18-year-old voters. Hamilton students backed McGovern over Nixon three to one. Some of us knocked on doors of registered Democrats in Clinton to get out the vote. It took a lot of walking. The Hill was a blue boat bobbing in a red ocean. During our years at Hamilton, we saw Nixon’s reelection and then his downfall.
Major players on the national and world stage came to Alumni Gym or the Chapel to bring the outside world into our world. We heard from congresswoman and presidential candidate Shirley Chisholm, former Attorney General Ramsey Clark, and Israeli diplomat and former foreign minister Abba Eban. The College bestowed honorary degrees on notables like civil rights leader Vernon Jordan, path-breaking congresswoman Barbara Jordan, entertainer Danny Kaye, and, at our graduation, to then-U.N. secretary general and future Austrian president Kurt Waldheim, who, it was later revealed, was complicit in Nazi war crimes and barred from the U.S. So, not all Hamilton’s choices withstood the test of time.
Into our protected bubble, tragedy sometimes tore a hole. Jonathan Marder, in the class behind us, took his own life. A prize for excellence in psychology honors his memory. Michael Horn was the first recipient. On the way home for Thanksgiving break junior year, Doug McDevitt was killed by a passing tractor-trailer. Doug had stopped to help a motorist in distress. He was that kind of guy. He was also a star swimmer. The Upper New York State Collegiate Swimming Association honors his memory with an annual award in his name. And Doug’s teammate, Jeff Carlberg was, fittingly, the first recipient.
Amid the many transitions, some things remained remarkably unchanged. Like those who came before us, we were a class of men, taught by men. There were just a few women on Hamilton’s faculty. The College tried with little success to recruit Black faculty. One professor called the effort a failure of imagination.
Our class was overwhelmingly white. Two thirds of our class came from New York State. Diversity then meant mixing a straight white male from Scarsdale with a straight white male from Skaneateles.
Our gay classmates did not disclose their orientation. Our Black and Latino classmates were few in number. A history course titled “The Black Man in America” had to be taught by a white man. (No criticism of Professor Dave Millar intended.) Yet, our classmates of color found camaraderie and support in the Afro-Latin Cultural Center, made music in the Uhuru Ensemble, and celebrated Black and Latin music and art in annual festivals. But they faced and overcame challenges the rest of us did not.
Campus life was still closely tied to fraternities, though almost half the freshmen did not join them. Those who did join had a chance to practice leadership, to live cooperatively, and to strengthen friendships. And to party. Houseparties were a big deal every fall, winter, and spring. They were often open to all. Independents were sometimes charged admission, but Kirkland students almost never. Theta Delt’s Beggar’s Banquet featured a medieval feast of roasted turkeys eaten without the benefit of forks, knives, plates, or napkins. Other parties had different themes. There were the ever-popular Beer and Bands often offered at AD, DU, ELS, PsiU, TKE, and Sigma Phi. And who can forget the famous Gin ‘n’ Juice? One weekend you could hit a Beer and Band at ELS Friday night; wake on Saturday and drink gin and juice at Chi Psi starting at 10:30 a.m.; drink beer at Beer and Bands all that night; then wake up Sunday, late of course, and drink more gin and juice on the Sig lawn, courtesy of Sigma Phi and DKE.
In those days, we drank a lot of fruit juice. And alcohol. Perhaps too much. The 18-year drinking age made it easy. So did Matt Brewing Company when it gave us its new, high-alcohol brew, Maximus Super. Its appeal was not the taste. Marijuana was popular, too. Some classmates experimented with psychedelics.
We also enjoyed alcohol-free entertainment at the Kirkland Coffeehouse. We listened to WHCL. And each week the film societies showed classic movies and foreign films at the Chemistry and Science auditoriums. It cost 75 cents. They showed everything from Ingmar Bergman and Francois Truffaut to Reefer Madness and Betty Boop. The latter two were a lot more entertaining if you were high. So I heard.
Most of us rarely left the Hill, except for jaunts to the Cider Mill or the bakery in the early morning hours for pastries still warm from the oven. We went to Don’s Rok or, if our parents were visiting or we had a special date, to Alteri’s or the Al Ham Inn. And we took the occasional trip to Utica to tour the brewery and taste samples, or to view art at the Munson Williams Proctor Arts Institute — but usually not on the same day.
Live musicians came to the Hill and covered all genres. We heard jazz greats Freddie Hubbard, Herbie Hancock, Modern Jazz Quartet, Chick Corea, and Return to Forever. We enjoyed John Prine, Happy & Artie Traum, Orleans, Billy Cobham, Grover Washington, Jr., Eddie Kendricks, and Taj Mahal. We heard the Eastman String Quartet and the Buffalo Philharmonic.
In 1971, the College helped form NESCAC, the New England Small College Athletic Conference, which shared our commitment to academic excellence. Some schools talk about scholar-athletes. But at Hamilton they were real.
We may recall that the football team had rough going during our four years. They won two out of 31 games and were winless two years straight. The Aaron Burr Lucky Shot Marching Kazoo Band marched around the field during half-times. Yet, that football team spent countless hours on practice, travel, and games. Why? They played for the competition and challenge, the teamwork, and teambuilding, and they played for love of the sport.
Other teams enjoyed greater success. Greg Batt’s hockey team thrived. The unheated Sage Rink was often packed with fans. We stood in the cold. Some said we were ill-mannered. I prefer “passionate.” Senior year, the team went 17-8-1 and skated to the ECAC East-West finals.
The basketball team, under Tom Murphy, made it to the semi-finals in the ECAC, a precursor to its championship seasons after we graduated. Hamilton swimming, coached by Eric MacDonald, was top notch our years. Jeff Carlberg, who went on to become a physician, won two NCAA championships in breaststroke. He made it into Sports Illustrated’s “Faces in the Crowd” feature. The cross-country team, coached by Gene Long, won 28 straight meets.
Classmates also competed in soccer, golf, tennis, lacrosse, track, and baseball. There were some junior varsity teams. And intramural teams. And jungle hockey. Lou Pacilio described the life lessons he learned from athletics at Hamilton, especially from Coach Long. Lou wrote, “Gene Long … taught us so much more than how to compete and improve athletically. … We learned how to meld as a team and support each other while sensing each other’s needs, strengths, [and] weaknesses.” Lou wrote that Coach Long taught mindfulness, well before it became popular, and how to relax under extreme fatigue and stress. He also taught moderation and to be mindful of doing something to excess.
That’s what athletics at Hamilton is all about — Mens sana, in corpore sano. A healthy mind in a healthy body.
Arts and music also thrived. Steak Nite rocked. An enthusiastic and committed group sang in the Hamilton Kirkland Choir, impressing audiences not just on the Hill but in Europe and New York City’s Town Hall. James Fankhauser is fondly remembered by the singers he led. The Charlatans put on plays. We also wrote poetry and stories. We painted and sculpted and danced. We did photography. As Peter Arturi recalled of Professor Palusky, he “gave me the freedom to explore an artsy side of me that I never knew existed.”
Some in our class made a career of performing and the arts. To name a few: Bob Halligan and Jeb Guthrie in music. Ray Dooley in drama. Joe Lewis published books, recorded music, and made art hung in galleries far and wide. But for most of us, finding and feeding our creative impulse was not our calling. But it enabled us to see the world differently; it gave us a lifelong appreciation of the arts; and it made us sharper thinkers, clearer writers, and more confident speakers.
We’ve gathered here this weekend for many reasons. But one reason is almost too obvious to mention. We’re here now because we arrived here almost 54 years ago. At the outset of my remarks, I talked about taking the road to Hamilton back in September 1971.
In Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” a young narrator tells us about a fateful choice:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And the traveler predicts how he’ll describe that choice years later in these familiar lines:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
But wait. The young traveler had earlier told us the two roads weren’t that different at all. One was “just as fair” as the other. And,
… the passing there
Had worn them really about the same
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
So, what’s going on? The young speaker thinks that in old age, he will have to delude himself about the choice he made.
Now, we’re getting to know something about old age. And we know better than that young traveler about choices made and roads not taken. We suffer no delusions. Yes, we took the road to Hamilton. But it was not our choosing that made the difference. It was Hamilton. Hamilton in all its facets. The professors. The lessons learned. The friendships formed. Hamilton made all the difference. And for that we are grateful.
Thank you.
Mitchel Ostrer came to the Hill from Great Neck (N.Y.) North High School. At the College, he majored in philosophy, edited The Spectator, and was active in Theta Delta Chi fraternity. After Hamilton, he earned a J.D. from Columbia Law School and an M.P.A. from Princeton School of Public and International Affairs. His legal career included positions in the public sector and private practice. Ostrer clerked for a New Jersey Supreme Court justice, counseled two New Jersey governors, and was legislative director for a U.S. senator in Washington, D.C. He also was a commercial litigator for a large Newark, N.J., law firm.
In 2003, he was appointed to the New Jersey Superior Court. He served first on the trial court, and then, for over 10 years, on the Appellate Division, retiring in 2021 as a presiding judge. After that, he taught at the University of Pennsylvania Carey Law School and Rutgers Law School. In 2023, he was recalled to judicial service part-time on the trial court.
Ostrer enjoys traveling, gardening, running, and spending time with family.
