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Two Staff Writers Oive Imp ressions of Mead’s Visit
Bettj Morrison and Mary Brown greet Dr. Margaret Mead on the
Salem campus.
By Mary Walton
I’m an American, not an anthro
pologist—at least, not in the usual
sense of the word. However, one
specimen of the Homo sapien
species has recently been brought
before my attention, and I offer
the following observations.
Black wedge shoes, a dark blue
velveteen dress cut round at the
neck in front and V-shaped behind,
the neck being trimmed with a
white pique edging, falling in a full
skirt, a single clear stone on a tiny
silver chain around her neck, short
silver-streaked hair, naturally curly
and styled in bangs, blue eyes, and
no makeup comprised her outward
appearance and hinted of a warm,
friendly manner even before her
tow, easy voice was heard or her
wit broke into a spreading smile.
She is, of course, Dr. Margaret
Mead, who was visiting our campus
after having returned from a three
weeks stay in England. Her jour
ney to the South was particularly
appreciated in view of the fact that
she came at the risk of gaining five
pounds every time she ate a pan
cake. This indeed proved to be the
embodiment of dining hall hospi
tality last Friday morning.
But the phenomenon of a glass
of Russian tea on the breakfast
table was incredible. Finally con
vinced that the glass contained
syrup, she admitted, “I saw it out
of the corner of my eye, and I
couldn’t think of anything except
how to keep someone from drink
ing it this early in the morning .
Dr. Mead was raised on a com
bination of Machiavelli and Lord
Chesterfield, studied other children
at the age of eight, lives in half a
house in Greenwich Village with
her daughter, and has acquired a
vocabulary consisting of such ey
phrases as, “Bali,” “monkey dan-
ces/* “caves,” and ‘heads made by
natives.”
Her daughter, under the care, at
the present, of the inhabitants o
the other half of the house in
which Dr. Mead lives, is editing
the school paper in her high school
in New York. She is hoping to
graduate in three years and then
pursue her study of mathematics
and poetry. This summer she wants
to work with Puerto Ricans in an
Episcopal neighborhood house.
MORRIS SERVICE
Nmct Tp C«»roHn* Theatr*
TOWN STEAK HOUSE
With such an influential mother,
it is no wonder that at eleven years
of age she expressed a desire to
go to Australia to “study the so
cial and geographical conditions.”
Upon further questioning, the thrill
of seeing a real kangaroo was es
tablished as her primary motive.
Fortunately, about two weeks
later, Dr. Mead was asked to give
a lecture series in Australia, and
mother and daughter went together.
Dr. Mead’s daughter also accom
panied her to the Salzburg festival
after World War II. Here they
stayed in the military zone.
Dr. Mead’s reaction to North
Carolina was that, because of wea
ther conditions, it is one of the
hardest places in which to get
around.
Her dry wit and humor smoothed
over many touchy subjects. She
said, “If we never leave the United
States, we never meet the people
who don’t come here; if we never
leave the United States, we never
meet the people who don’t want
to come here.”
Her conception of an American
is a person who reads novels and
eats peaches in bathtubs—“barefoot
from Wall Street”, honest, pner-
ous, self-made, and clothed in the
spirit of ’76. He is a person who,
when he is abroad and meets other
Americans, wishes they had stayed
home and let him represent Amer
ica by himself. Of the American
Army she commented that the only
thing you can say is that it is
“male, of a certain age, good phy
sique, and literate.”
Claiming that the greatest dif-
enqrouinij CO.
By Martha Ann Kennedy
There was a low hum of conver
sation in the Friendship Room
Emily and I stood in the vestibule
not knowing quite what to do.
Then Dr. “Isn’t he the cutest
thing?” Africa stealthily approach
ed us and, in a whisper, said “You
two young ladies certainly do have
on pretty dresses tonight.” Two
more members of the Africa Fan
Club were immediately added.
He was closely followed by a
small, dark man who was intro
duced as a doctor from Bowman
Gray, but originally from Venice
They gallantly procured some
chairs for us from the dining room,
and we followed them to the door
way of “The Inner Sanctum”.
Miss Byrd rustled up in olive
green taffeta and herded us over
to the rose sofa. Before we knew
it, we had met her.
She didn’t look a thing like her
picture in the Salemite. A little
hand, almost like a child’s hand
covered with a kid glove, gripped
mine in a firm handshake. Above
it, was a smalt round face, almost
covered with a broad smile, shiny
round glasses, and gray bangs.
So this tiny little woman was the
Dr. Margaret Mead who had writ
ten all those big books over in the
library. As we turned away to sit
down, I was mentally kicking my
self for not having read at least
one of them.
Our chairs seemed to have dis
appeared, so Miss Covington helped
us move a couch near the circle
ference in societies is their philo
sophy that peace is the natural
state and war is an interruption
or vice versa, Dr. Mead advpcated
the combining of American tech
nology with European resources
and better technical assistance on
the part of the United States. She
warns us to be a pwt of Santa
Claus in this matter of the “Battle
of Images.” She believes that we
must make the American way of
life something more than an un-,
attainable image to other peoples.
Dr. Mead’s serious-veined humor
was expressed in her advice con-
(Continued on Pace Four)
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surrounding this remarkable
woman. I was straining my ears
to hear some of the stimulating
talk, and a polite man, sitting be
side Dr. Mead, must have noticed.
He rose and insisted that I take
his seat. I left Emily talking to
the Venetian doctor’s wife. She
had a soft voice and an intriguing
accent. I remember thinking that
her face looked like a cameo.
I settled myself down into a nice
little discussion about Bali, Thai
land, and Indonesia. Having not
read Time magazine since last sum
mer, I was content to listen, and
to marvel at my own ignorance of
current events and geography.
While Dr. Mead was catching up
on all the news from Bali since
her last visit there in 1929, (i.e.,
that the Balinese women were still
resisting all efforts to make them
wear clothes.) I took a few near
sighted glances at what she had on.
I don’t know what I thought an
thropologists were supposed to
wear, but I was surprised to see a
royal blue velvet Ann Fogarty. It
was deceivingly severe in front with
long sleeves and a high neck, but
once when she leaned forward, her
short baum marten cape fell away.
and revealed a deep V in back 1
Around her neck, she was wear
ing a very unusual pendant—a hen-
egg sized hunk of pale aquamarine
on a slender chain.
I found myself listening to the
conversation again. They spoke of
flying to London, Bangkok, and
other faraway places, as casually as
Chapel Hill, or Wrightsville Beach.
I finally got up my nerve, racked
my brain, and, during a pause,
asked a question about Balinese
women.
She said they carried baskets on
their heads and, therefore, had a
graceful, fluid walk. She was in
the middle of a description of their
phenomenal hairdos — wavy hair,
three feet long, caught up in a coil
by two single strands of hair—^wlicn
Miss Byrd appeared.
She led Dr. Mead away for a
little rest before the scheduled lec
ture. With the central figure gone,
every one began pulling on their
coats and drifting toward the door.
Emily and I said our goodnights
and walked back to our respective
dorms, vowing to read Male and
Female, Coming of Age in Samoa,
Time, and the newspaper, but es
sentially yearning to be COSMO
POLITANS !
The College Inn
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