The Browns of California

by Miriam Pawel

  Jerry and Damrell entered Sacred Heart seminary in Los Gatos on August 15, the anniversary of the date in 1534 when followers of Ignatius of Loyola took their vows and formed the Society of Jesus. On the eve of their formal entry into the Society, Jerry and Damrell met at a friend’s house in San Francisco. Bart Lally, Jerry’s childhood friend, picked up his classmates for the hour’s drive south. Although they would be nearby, visiting would be strictly limited. Damrell’s parents came from Modesto to say goodbye.

  Pat missed the send-off. As the highest-ranking California Democrat, the attorney general led the state’s delegation at the party’s national convention in Chicago.

  “The party for you4—not just the few” was the slogan at the 1956 convention where Democrats expected to nominate Adlai Stevenson, who would again face President Dwight Eisenhower. The gathering marked only the second time national conventions were broadcast live on television, and the program offered a page of “You’re on TV” tips: Stay in your seat until the broadcast ends. Ignore the cameras. And remember, “We’re playing to the world’s greatest audience.”

  An estimated 70 million viewers watched an unexpected floor fight unfold on live television. Stevenson was nominated for president and then announced he would throw open the vice presidential nomination for a vote the next day. Half a dozen candidates lobbied delegates throughout the night. Around three A.M., leaders of the California delegation met with Senator John F. Kennedy, the thirty-nine-year-old Massachusetts Democrat.

  The California delegation was, as always, large, eclectic, undisciplined, and independent. They prided themselves on not taking orders from anyone. About two thirds favored Kennedy’s principal opponent, Tennessee senator Estes Kefauver. Minnesota senator Humbert Humphrey also had support. Pat preferred Kennedy but did not attempt to pressure others. He also had trepidation about the promising young politician running on a ticket that would likely lose to Eisenhower and Nixon.

  Hours later, the new anchor team of David Brinkley and Chet Huntley covered the action on NBC, boasting new “ultra-portable cameras” that enabled delegate interviews on the floor. On the first ballot California cast 33 votes for Kefauver, 23½ for Humphrey, and 10½ for Kennedy. In the bedlam, Pat could have voted the delegation almost any way he wanted, but he resisted the temptation to shift votes to Kennedy. The second ballot became a two-man race, and Kennedy pulled ahead. When he edged close to a majority, one by one, states shifted votes to Kefauver. When the result became inevitable, California asked to be recognized. Pat was so hoarse he could barely croak out the numbers: 50 votes for Kefauver, 18 for Kennedy. A few minutes later, Kennedy moved to nominate his rival by acclamation.

  “I must confess5 that I was in doubt and confused as to what should be done,” Pat wrote a few days later to Dick Nolan, political reporter for the San Francisco Examiner, who had described chaos among “the free, undirected, un-bossed” California delegation. “Confusion is understandable when you consider that California is low on the roll call, must vote almost immediately after the results are announced, and it is a tough job to reach 136 delegates, some of whom are in the mezzanine. What would you have done to have made history rather than have it pass you by?”

  Jerry knew nothing of the history being made in Chicago; his new life required a virtual news blackout. Bart Lally had dropped off his friends, their trunks filled with heavy-duty shoes, tan denims, black jeans, and black trousers to wear under cassocks. He snapped a photo as the two stood in front of the large wooden door to their new home, Sacred Heart Novitiate, an imposing building on a vine-covered hillside. Waiting for the new entrants were their “angels,” second-year novices paired with the new arrivals to help them adjust. Their names were entered in the daily ledger in Latin, the primary language they would use and the only subject they would study.

  The first two years in the seminary were designed to immerse novices in the medieval, monastic way of life, to instill in them an understanding of the Jesuit motto “Contemplation in action.” That was the mindset they would carry back to the world. They were to obey the dictum Age quod agis—Do what you are doing. Focus on the present. Look to the future, but don’t let it dictate present actions. Be in the world, but not of it. The novitiate inculcated cerebral supremacy and emotional discipline that bordered on detachment. The ideal Jesuit was described as the teacher who, informed in the midst of a class that his mother has died, calmly continues with the lesson.

  Opened in 1888, the H-shaped seminary in the rolling hills south of San Jose housed between 170 and 200 men. The chapel, dining hall, and administration offices were in the central part of the building. Novices lived in the west wing; juniors, who had taken their vows, lived in the east wing. Three or four novices shared a cubicle, with partition dividers about three quarters of the way to the ceiling and curtains for doors. Each had a bed, washbasin, closet, desk, and kneeler. They were instructed to keep the cubicle in perfect order—bed made, curtain drawn halfway except while dressing, only a crucifix on the desk.

  On his first full day at Sacred Heart,6 422 years after Ignatius took his vows, Edmundus G. Brown followed a schedule that had changed little since the eighteenth century. The details were recorded in the logbook: they rose at 5:50 A.M. that first day, though their normal wake-up time would be 5 A.M. Meditation began at 6:08 and continued until the 6:25 call to mass. At 8:45, make beds; at 9:08 the angels guided the novices in their first Reflection. At 9:20, Ordinary; at 9:50 they gathered at the wall outside; at 10:20 they stood in formation in front of the novice gate with new juniors. At 11:00 they had ten minutes of free time, followed by a half hour of tempus scribendi (writing time). At 11:40, call to Litanies, the common prayers, which began five minutes later and lasted until supper at noon. The afternoon was similar: 1:30, free, licet siesta (naps permitted); 2:15, spiritual reading; 2:30, Roman stations; 3:30, Rosary; 3:55, licet swim; 4:15, Pool tempus; 4:35, bell for benediction. Because juniors traditionally took their vows on August 15, after two years in the novitiate, the day concluded with a feast and special program. The next morning, the newcomers were warned about poison oak and fitted for their cassocks, to be worn at all times except during work or play. A simple ceremony a week later presenting the cassocks marked the start of formal training for the novices.

  Their daily routine would vary little for the next two years, adding in Latin class, study periods, memory recitation, and chores. Manual labor assignments rotated; the class beadle, who kept logs and helped with administration, moved pegs with the novices’ names to match slots on a wooden board that listed jobs—sweeping, cleaning, scullery, barbershop. All were done in silence, except outside jobs such as cleaning the chicken house and swimming pool. On Sundays they had tempus scribendi, time to write journal entries or letters to parents. Writing to other relatives was discouraged, with the exception of an occasional letter to a grandparent.

  The novices received detailed instructions for their daily routines. Morning meditation on the life of Christ was done at the desk, kneeling, then standing, then sitting, then kneeling again during the colloquy, which ended when the priest began the mass. The afternoon meditation was on the Rules—kneeling, standing or sitting, then kneeling. Confession was once a week. The “Ordinary” reading period each day was a half hour set aside to study the Spanish Jesuit Alphonsus Rodriguez’s classical work on asceticism, The Practice of Perfection and Christian Virtues, and The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas à Kempis. The “Extraordinary” reading period was another half hour devoted to learning the history of the Society and the lives of the saints. All books had to be sanctioned by the Father Master.

  Corporal penance required explicit permission; “interior mortification and abnegation” were encouraged. Each novice was expected to say a culpa once a month, a public acknowledgment of a fault or breach of discipline. During supper, the novice knelt, made the sign of the cross, kissed the floor, folded his hands, said graces with the community, and then said his culpa. Other penances included sa
ying graces with arms outstretched in the form of a cross, kissing the feet of members of the community, and kneeling while eating dinner. Novices were also subject to Exercitium Caritatis, in which their defects were pointed out by brothers who offered frank assessments that always began with, “It seems to me …” Silence was mandatory except during recreation, work or play outside, or with special permission.

  “As in any ‘boot-camp,’7 moments of deepest soul-searching and events of spontaneous hilarity weave together in the pattern of a novice’s life to make these years the happiest and most rewarding a young man can know,” explained the “Points for Parents” brochure the seminary sent home to help families adjust to their son’s new vocation.

  They sent personal letters as well. “You are probably beginning to feel the loss8 (apparent) of Jerry,” Father Jim Straukamp wrote Pat and Bernice at the end of August 1956. “That is only natural and is part of the sacrifice of giving your boy to God. But just as you have been generous with Him, so will He return your generosity … a Jesuit remains closer to the family than one who gets married. It is God’s way of making up for his departure. Jerry is a truly wonderful son … he’ll make a perfect Jesuit. And for this reason we are expecting great things of him.”

  Jerry embraced the dramatically different life, though the night owl took some weeks to adjust to the early rising. “The change in routine9 was immediate and noticeable—especially having to get up when a few weeks before I was used to going to bed,” he wrote to his uncle Harold. “Five o’clock in the morning around here is a beautiful time of the day—birds are chirping, the sun is coming up over Mount Hamilton casting a glow over the whole valley that joins with the dew to sparkle forth a freshness that you see at no other time.” Time passed quickly, despite the unchanging daily routine. The goal of the novitiate, he explained, is “to furnish a man with an extended opportunity of looking into the meaning of life and then trying to come up with some basic answers … It opened up for me unthought possibilities. Becoming acquainted with Christianity in a serious way and the spiritual life that it implies was a tremendously expanding experience. It laid out a new world for me.”

  His father was finding more opportunities to exert his own core values as he rose in political prominence. When Pat was asked to introduce Adlai Stevenson a few weeks before the election, he chose a setting that spoke to the diversity of California. “We are here today to welcome our honored guest with a truly American throng10 composed of the descendants of people who have come to this city from all corners of the world,” Pat said at a massive rally in San Francisco. He tied the virtues of the state to the candidate who had helped establish the United Nations in San Francisco a decade earlier. They stood in North Beach, home of Joe DiMaggio and scores of Italian American power brokers, Pat told the crowd of eighteen thousand people. A few blocks away was the largest Chinese community outside China. Nearby were communities of immigrants from Europe, South America, and Mexico. That mingling of cultures should be an example for the rest of the world, Pat said, at a time when technology had the power to draw people closer. Italy could be reached from California in less time than it had taken pioneers like August Schuckman to travel from Reno, Nevada, to San Francisco. “It is obvious we are all neighbors and should never be enemies,” Pat said, stressing “the dignity of all men of all colors, races and creeds.”

  Three days later, Israel invaded Egypt in an attempt to gain control of the Suez Canal, and despite his natural optimism, Pat doubted that Stevenson could prevail. Pat found Eisenhower particularly impressive on television, which played a growing role in the campaign. “There are some people in public life who have a magnetic personality11 and Eisenhower is certainly one of them,” he wrote to Jerry. “I never believe in underestimating the enemy.” On Election Day, Eisenhower trounced Stevenson; he won all but seven states, including California, where his margin was more than ten points.

  Pat tried to make it to Los Gatos for the monthly visits on Sunday from two to four in the afternoon. He and his son walked around the seminary’s spacious grounds, unless the weather was bad or the outside area too crowded, and then they sat in the car. Jerry seemed content but hungry for news of the outside world. When his sister Cynthia visited with her fiancé, Joe Kelly, the novice was reluctant to end the conversation, and the car windows steamed up.

  The novices had been at Sacred Heart more than six months before they were exposed to anything akin to the cultural life they had left behind. On May 8, 1957, they watched a performance of Macbeth staged by the juniors. John Coleman, who had been a year ahead of Jerry at St. Ignatius and bested him in the intraclass debates, played Macduff. “It was an excellent performance,”12 Jerry wrote his parents. “This was my first real taste of anything along the intellectual line in the last few months and I enjoyed it very much. However I’m in no hurry to resume my studies again.”

  Aware that that would reinforce his parents’ doubts, he tried to explain the importance of the early years in the lengthy path to become a Jesuit priest, ticking off the different stages. “Sometimes I get the impression that you think of the novitiate as some kind of necessary evil13—something left over from another age and now outdated. Actually it is the most important part of our training. The time when the foundation is laid, the principles learned, and the defects eliminated. In the Juniorate we tackle the classics, in Philosophy we meet the great minds of history and consider the fundamental questions of life, in Regency the students, in Theology the truths of our religion, but in the Novitiate we face and with God’s grace conquer the toughest opponent of all—ourselves. Many conquer others but only the great conquer themselves.”

  Pat responded quickly: “As usual, you have real discernment. I guess we do feel that the Novitiate is some kind of necessary evil because it is so difficult for us to understand a retreat from the stimulus of continued intellectual activity.” He was impressed by Jerry’s enthusiasm but eager for him to resume traditional classes, reading the works Pat had never had the opportunity to study. Pat read Jesuit publications and admired the rigorous thinking. But he wondered if the centuries-old traditions might not need to be updated. And then Pat Brown identified a trait that would be a lasting legacy of the Jesuit education and a well-known hallmark of his son: “I believe further that the Society will teach you to look at everything with skepticism and demand proof.”

  Father and son continued theological debates in person and by letter, along with lighter moments. (Pat urged Jerry to eat well: “It is my observation that fat friars are always happier.”) Bernice refused to engage or apply her formidable intellect to understand the Jesuit theology or its appeal. She sometimes cried on the ride home after visits. Pat left books around the house and tried to persuade her to read Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ, to no avail. He urged Jerry to write about more mundane matters. “One of these days14 I expect her to reach for some of these books, merely to try to understand you and your determination. When she does, she will go after them with the same zeal with which she approaches everything else. At the present time, Mother enjoys hearing from you, but, very frankly, she cannot understand your objectives. This comes, of course, from a complete disinterest in religion.”

  Pat had more success in drawing Bernice into the public world of politics. The two flew to the opening of the Truman Library in Independence, Missouri, on the private plane of Ed Pauley, a Truman confidant, Democratic powerbroker, and oil baron. They mingled with Herbert Hoover, Dean Acheson, Sam Rayburn, and Earl Warren. “It was a most enjoyable trip and I think it was the very first time Mother really enjoyed politics,”15 Pat wrote to his son. “She admitted it, which, I think, was quite an admission for her.”

  By the spring of 1957, Pat faced an important decision. He began to consult pretty much everyone, including his cloistered son. In 1958, all the statewide offices would be on the ballot, as well as a contest for U.S. senator. Pat could expect to easily win reelection as attorney general. Democrats were urging him to
instead challenge either the incumbent Republican governor or senator. He was torn. “I love being Attorney General16 and cannot even think of anybody else sitting in this chair,” he wrote to Jerry. “The United States Senate would open a completely new vista and permit me to have a box office seat on world affairs. The Governorship, of course, would be like your first two years at the Novitiate—tough but very enjoyable! I am being criticized by some of my Democratic friends for not making a decision, but I can’t help it. I just don’t know what I am going to do.”

  In fact, Pat had made a confidential pact with Clair Engle, a senior member of California’s congressional delegation: If Engle challenged Senator William Knowland, scion of a powerful Bay Area family that owned the Oakland Tribune, Pat would run against Warren’s successor, the amiable Goodwin Knight. But their political calculus was upended when the archconservative Knowland decided to challenge Knight for governor in the Republican primary. Suddenly the Senate seat had no incumbent, and Pat’s angst increased.

  Nineteen-year-old Jerry, ostensibly cut off from news, had plenty of advice. “Dear Dad,17 I thought I could write and give you a few of my ideas [about] your impending decision,” he wrote in July 1957. He believed his father had decided to run for governor but vacillated out of fear he would lose, and Jerry fed those fears: Knowland would run a rough, well-financed race, because he saw the governorship as a stepping-stone to the presidency, and a loss would be career-ending. “Before running against him I think you should weigh your chances very carefully.” He acknowledged that the deal with Engle complicated matters. But the skilled debater took the position that his father had a better chance of winning the open Senate seat, which would provide an equally good springboard to national prominence:

  The basic question seems to me to boil down to this: Where will you have the best opportunity of doing the most for God and country—which two ends are necessarily the same. As Senator you would have six uninterrupted years, untroubled by election entanglements to devote to your work. You would be the only senator of the majority party from the biggest state in the Union (if the population continues to grow at the present rate).