Words of Wisdom: John J. Delaney '50's 1985 Kohlmann Address

Over Gonzaga’s history, there have been countless graduation speeches--many of them inspiring and memorable. However, as we look back through Gonzaga’s archives, the Kohlmann Address delivered by the late John J. Delaney ‘50 on June 9, 1985 stands out as one of the most powerful and poignant. 

Mr. Delaney was the school’s first alumnus to be asked to deliver the Kohlmann address, and he did not disappoint. Printed on the following pages are his full remarks--remarks that continue to carry remarkable significance as Gonzaga looks ahead to its next 200 years.  

 

In order to understand that challenge, it is first necessary to understand Gonzaga and why it is singularly qualified to make such a demand upon her sons. So today I would also like to share with you some reflections about this school, its history and spirit, and about you, the Class of 1985, and your role in its past and future.

Thirty-five years ago, like you, I sat in this historic pre-Civil War church as a member of the graduating Class of 1950. I remember little about what was said that day. But I do recall that it was a time of mixed emotions--happiness and nostalgia mixed with a dab of anxiety as we prepared for "life after Zag." 

I specifically remember my mind wandering back to a few years before when as a freshman I took that first walk up the wind-swept alley by St. Aloysius; observing the grated windows; 

the smokestacks; the cat walks; the only school in the country it seemed where the 

"back door" was actually the "front door." 

It all contributed to an architectural style which perhaps could best be characterized as "Early American Alcatraz." Many times in those early days I would ask myself, "What is a nice little Chevy Chase boy like me doing here?" 

Gradually, however, like so many others, I was swept up in the Eye Street scene and the unique 

spirit that has always been "Gonzaga." And on that long-ago graduation day, as my 

wandering mind returned to the present, I was extremely grateful that my life had been 

touched by this place. 

But "wait" you say. "We know all of that. We, too, have lived the Gonzaga story. 

Indeed, for us, that story has been one of virtually unparalleled success. Why belabor us 

with these meanderings? 

It is a fair question. The Class of 1985 has not only lived the Gonzaga story, it has helped to bring this school to new thresholds of greatness. Its successes in academics, extra-curricular activities and athletics are a source of immense pride for the entire Gonzaga family. Yes, members of the Class of 1985, Gonzaga is indeed on a roll. Like a phoenix, it has literally risen from the ashes of this city and returned to its long held place of prominence. New and refurbished facilities abound. Applicants in unprecedented numbers seek admission. The Eagles fly high. 

Why then is it necessary to reflect on Gonzaga and its challenge to all of us to 

become “men for others”? What is the significance of such reflection when we look 

about us today and see what the school and the Class of 1985 have achieved? 

The answer, I submit, lies in another question--a question that is crucial. Is it 

possible that Gonzaga's successes will blur our vision of what this school has stood for? 

Are we in danger of forgetting the “men for others" theme that generations of Gonzagans have heard through the years? 

It is appropriate to ask these questions today, precisely because success does not often breed introspection. High tide covers over the shoals. Gonzaga's right to challenge us to be "men for others" does not spring from a background of prestige and wealth; from being an institution solely for the rich and powerful. Just as Christianity finds its credibility in Christ's suffering, just as steel is forged from fire, Gonzaga's challenge finds its legitimacy in a lineage of deprivation, born of a commitment to serve all segments of society.

 

As we bask today in the warm glow of success, we must not forget that there is and always has been another Gonzaga, a Gonzaga which struggles to survive. To be sure there have been triumphs along the way. But between these triumphs and even during them, Gonzaga's 164-year history is in essence a crucible. It was thus from the very earliest years of its existence as a small seminary on F Street. It was thus for decades following the relocation of the school to what is now Kohlman Hall in 1871. In that first year on Eye Street, only 70 students showed up for classes. The discouragement over the school's plight is revealed in the pages of the History of Gonzaga's First One Hundred Years, wherein it is stated that Eye Street in 1871 was "little more than a prairie." 

The writer goes on to observe: "There is the quiet of peace, and there is also the quiet of death; the tranquility of Gonzaga, during this, its first year in the new site, looked dangerously like the latter." 

But we need not return to prior generations or the last century to know and understand this other side of the Gonzaga story. We need only go back to 1968, the year in which many of you were born. It is a lifetime for you, but really only a brief stroke in history's broad brush. The tragic events of 1968 seared the very fabric of our country and have left their imprint even to this day. 

They were to present Gonzaga with perhaps the greatest crisis that it has ever faced. It has been said that this world is divided into "givers" and "takers." All good men and most great men are givers--willing to risk failure, to make sacrifices, to do what is right for their fellow man. Christ was such a giver. Gonzaga's leaders throughout the decades, beginning in 1821 with its founder, Father Anthony Kohlman, and continuing to the present day with our beloved president, Father Bernard Dooley, have been givers. Their spirit of giving has been reflected in the institution itself. 

To recall 1968 in the life of Gonzaga is also to recall the lives of two men, each of which in its own way is intertwined with that of Gonzaga. Each of these men was a "giver." Each was a "man for others." Each was to fulfill his destiny in 1968. 

One was Aloysius P. McGonigal, a humble Jesuit priest. Al McGonigal taught at Gonzaga as a scholastic in the late 1940's. He was a tough little man, barely 5½ feet tall. He ran the bookstore with an iron hand. He also used to conduct what was known as the "Volunteer Saturday Morning Latin Class." 

You didn't have to attend the Volunteer Saturday Morning Latin Class--unless of course you wanted to pass Latin. I remember how we used to complain about having to come down to school on Saturday mornings. We groused about Al McGonigal's hard-nosed attitude and insensitivity. 

Later, of course, following our years at Gonzaga, would come the realization that if 

anyone was insensitive, we were; that Al McGonigal did not have to give up his Saturday 

mornings for us, but that he did so--he made this sacrifice--in order to help us.I lost track of Al McGonigal after leaving Gonzaga, but nearly 20 years later in 1968, I had occasion to read about him again. The Vietnam War was raging and the terrible Tet offensive was underway, especially around the City of Hue. 

Father McGonigal was serving in the army as a chaplain at the time. His own unit was safely 

behind the lines, several miles from Hue. But he learned that the units under fire at 

Hue were without a chaplain. So Al McGonigal took the risk and went to Hue--a place 

where he didn't have to be. 

And it was there, as an unarmed chaplain, that Al McGonigal made the ultimate sacrifice in service to his fellow man. Today, if you visit that simple but haunting Vietnam Memorial on the mall next to the ellipse, you will find the name of Al McGonigal inscribed there: a small but fitting memorial to one who was truly a "man for others." 

 

Just as Christ did not have to go to Calvary, and Al McGonigal did not have to go 

to Hue, Martin Luther King did not have to go to Memphis. But each went because there was a need for him to go--a need to take a risk in order to serve his fellow man. They were "men for others." 

  

Few who were alive in 1968 will ever forget the impact of Dr. King's death. Doubt pierced the very soul of this nation. There was even doubt about the essential unity necessary for survival of a nation so beset by a widening gulf of misunderstanding between black and white, rich and poor, young and old. The cities--those vital core areas of America--were especially scarred, physically and psychologically. 

To analogize from Les Miserables, the cities are the conscience of a nation. They are where its people and problems come together and confront one another. But after the events of April 1968, people, businesses and institutions were departing the cities of America in a tidal wave, leaving wastelands of despair, ruin and poverty in their wake. Washington, D.C., the capital of our nation, was no exception. 

It was thus, with the death of Martin Luther King, Jr., and its terrible aftermath that the indescribable spirit of Gonzaga--that basic sense of decency that pervades here--was to undergo its severest test and emerge to enjoy its finest hour as an example for the nation. If the cities are the conscience of a nation, perhaps it is not overreaching to claim that Gonzaga is the conscience of the City of Washington, or at least the conscience of the Jesuits of the Maryland Province. 

For while America writhed in despair about its cities and the headlong rush to suburbia continued, Gonzaga--to its everlasting credit--stayed in the very heart of the nation's capital. The Jesuits took a risk, because they perceived that the need to continue to provide a 

quality education for young men from all over the metropolitan area was greater than ever.

 

That risk was not without its price. In the years following 1968, enrollment dropped precipitously. Deficits arose. The school's small endowment disappeared. In 1971, Gonzaga bravely celebrated its Sesquicentennial--the 150th year of its  existence. One of the highlights of that celebration was the Dramatic Association's memorable production of Camelot. But despite all the noble effort and the brave front, the tranquility of death once again hung over Gonzaga, as it had one hundred years before. Once again Gonzaga was standing alone on the prairie. Like Camelot, its days seemed numbered. That great shining experiment of the Jesuits--to operate a college preparatory school in the heart of the Nation's Capital, to which boys of all backgrounds could come and learn together--seemed doomed to failure. 

But somehow, Gonzaga persevered with its commitment. Few will ever fully understand the day-by-day sacrifices of the Jesuits and the Gonzaga family in living out that commitment. Some of those who lived it are among us today. They sit before you in this sanctuary. They sit behind you with your families and friends. They sit above you in the choir loft. But for their efforts and the efforts of hundreds of others, none of us would be here today to celebrate the achievements of the Class of 1985. 

Wolf Von Eckart, the noted urban planner, on the editorial page of the Washington Post in 1973, described Gonzaga's decision to stay in the City of Washington as "almost defiant." But stay Gonzaga did. Now in 1985 we begin to see fulfillment! Gonzaga's vision is at last being shared by others across the land. More and more people and institutions are beginning to understand that mankind's problems are not resolved by running away.

I truly believe that if Christ, or Martin Luther King, Jr., or Al McGonigal were here today, they would say to Gonzaga, "Well done." But they would also say to the Gonzaga family that we cannot rest; that much work lies ahead. All we need do is look around us to see that this is true. Problems of social justice, drug and alcohol abuse, poverty and housing, to name but a few, are still unresolved. 

It is really bizarre in a way. We live in Washington, D.C., the capital city of the United States and the Free World. Our daily lives are involved with perhaps the only high school in the country that is situated in the very shadow of the Capitol building itself. We can virtually reach out and touch it. How many times have we walked or driven down North Capitol Street and seen that magnificent dome glistening in the sun or the moonlight? How many times have we thought about it as the symbol of hope and justice for all freedom-loving people? And yet, a mere turn of the wheel into the driveway next to St. Aloysius confronts us with a different reality--the reality of hunger, addiction and hopelessness, embodied in the lines of men who daily seek help 

and solace at the Horace McKenna Center in this very building.