March 16, 1962
Professor Rosenberg studied the young man sitting across from him. He'd known the young man for three years now, had nurtured him through his doctorate, and now his post-doctorate. He'd encouraged and defended him as one does a protégé, and felt a burst of pride like a father would when the young man's study of French Algeria was published and received wide academic acclaim. Isn't that what old men who have reached the peak of their career are supposed to do?
Yet for all their time together, he really didn't know this young man: John Paul Crampton. He wondered if anyone really did. Crampton was a mystery, a closed book. He was always calm, always deliberate, and truly unshakable. He'd once seen a colleague taunt him about his paper to the point that anyone else would have probably punched the guy, but not Crampton. He just let the guy rant and rave, and then calmly rebutted his arguments. Absolutely unflappable. Normally he would expect such a person to be an introvert, and exceedingly shy. Not Crampton. He had highly developed and refined social skills, and was always popular at departmental social functions. Rosenberg's own wife had commented on how charming the young man was. What most people failed to realize was that despite the charm and conversation, after they were done talking to him, people rarely were able to discern any idea about who he really was.
To read Crampton you had to really look for the signs. Right now, he was sitting across the desk appearing nonchalant; no one could guess that he was being subjected to the intense scrutiny of his mentor and department chair. The light green eyes betrayed nothing, nor did the relaxed expression on his face. His hands weren't fiddling, his feet weren't tapping...no, this was one cool customer.
There it was! Professor Rosenberg smiled in triumph. Crampton had run his hand through his perfectly groomed blond hair. That was one of the only signs of nervousness Rosenberg had ever seen him display. Satisfied with his victory, with finally breaking through that hard outer shell, he decided that he'd tortured the young man enough. It was time to break the silence.
“So you've applied for a post-doc at Berkeley, and for assistant professorships at Brown, Northwestern, and Ohio State. I've sent my letters of recommendation to all those institutions, and of course they're glowing.”
“Thank you professor,” Crampton said with a smile. His smiles always seemed fake, but it was the twinkle in his eyes, the only other true sign of emotion one could detect from Crampton, that gave away his pleasure.
“So you decided not to apply for the professorship in Mississippi?” Rosenberg could guess why, but he wanted to hear it for himself.
“Yes sir. The racial situation down there is just too intense. I'd probably end up getting lynched if I went there.” Crampton said this with a wry smile, recalling his recent trip to the Mississippi campus. It had been draped with Confederate battle flags and there were signs and banners saying “Niggers stay out” posted throughout the campus. Not his cup of tea.
“So would I. Well, I wish you luck. If nothing works out for you, you know you can stay here at Princeton for another post-doc. It's been a great pleasure to have you here. I've rarely encountered such a promising young scholar.” Rosenberg was becoming a bit wistful.
“Thank you for everything you've done for me sir. You've really inspired me, and encouraged me. I don't think I'd have gotten my doctorate without you.” And with that, the shields briefly fell, and Rosenberg got his biggest present of all: the look of sincerity and affection that shot from Crampton's eyes was priceless. It was gone just as quickly. It was time to end this meeting before it got too maudlin.
“Well, good luck Crampton. Have a good weekend, and we'll see you here on Monday.” With that they stood up and shook hands.