Ted Lowi was the first government professor I ever met. When I arrived at Cornell in September 1960, I attended a talk he gave to prospective government majors. It was titled, “Why You Shouldn’t Major in Government.” Needless to say, if that was Ted’s serious intent, the talk was an abysmal failure. But of course, it wasn’t. Ted’s wit and vibrancy, I am sure, persuaded most fence-sitters that government was indeed the subject to major in.
Another memory of Ted from my first semester is of the time he invited one Francis J. Souhan, Democratic candidate for Congress, to speak to the Young Democrats (of which Ted was the adviser and I a member). Through no fault of Ted’s, this event really was a failure. The Tompkins County area in those days was quite conservative, and it was unlikely that any Democrat could have unseated the longtime Republican incumbent. As a result, it must have been hard for the Democrats to recruit anyone for the race. Souhan (possibly a lawyer) was the best they could find that year. But it was an error to have subjected him, following a brief introductory talk, to questioning by a group of idealistic Cornell students. As we grilled him with questions about esoteric subjects like foreign aid, Souhan, increasingly flustered, began having to wipe his brow. Ted, however, had to struggle gamely to persuade him to leave the podium. (Afterwards, I felt guilty about having been insufficiently “realistic” about politics to realize that you shouldn’t try to embarrass your own party’s candidate.)
A year after I graduated from Cornell and entered the doctoral program in political science at the University of Chicago, Ted joined the faculty there (probably not chiefly on account of my presence). It was a pleasure to renew our acquaintance. Although I was never formally Ted’s student -- I audited one of his seminars at Chicago -- and our approaches to political science, as well as our political beliefs, diverged, I chiefly remember Ted from our Chicago years for the unfailing tolerance and continuing friendship he displayed towards others with whose views he differed. He even tried to help some of us who weren’t his students in our pursuit of academic jobs (for instance, helping procure an interview for me at UMass, even though I didn’t really “fit” what they were looking for).
My wife Roberta, whom I met at Chicago, also got to know Ted during her grad student years. I still remember the title of a rather informal summer seminar she took from him: “Everything You Wanted to Know about Political Science but Were Afraid to Ask.” (It included certain unofficial, semi-humorous “tips” on how to get your scholarly articles published.) Ted also kindly served as second reader on Roberta’s MA thesis on the political thought of John Maynard Keynes.
The last time I saw Ted, at an APSA meeting when he was in his mid-70s, he seemed as cheerful and energetic as ever, expressing gratitude to Congress for having prohibited colleges from compelling faculty members to retire on account of age. (As I approach the age that Ted was then, despite my normal wariness about excessive government regulation, I feel the same way.)
Aside from his much-valued contributions to scholarship, Ted stands out in my memory for his warmth, wit, and open-mindedness. American academia today desperately needs more such people.
David Lewis Schaefer
Professor, Political Science
College of the Holy Cross
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