y father, who had been a class clown for much of high school, was seriously challenged by his course work at Columbia. He had to work dilligently to stretch himself academically.

Professor Herman Farwell, my father's physics instructor, had a strident voice, an abrasive personality, and a data-base memory. Within a week, he had memorized the names of all 250 students in his lecture class.

When exasperated in class by the wrong answer to a question, he would shout at the offender, "Think! Think! Think!"

My father would never forget Farwell's exhortations.

"The Thinker," by Auguste Rodin, in front of Philosophy Hall, Columbia University

Another foundation stone in his character building occurred during his sophmore year. He happened to come across a book on will power that transformed his life. He came to believe that whatever he set his mind to, he could achieve.

There were four blacks in his class of 481, including his friend and Brotherhood Fellowship teammate, Raymond Anderson.

My father played freshman basketball, but, despite his polished game, he got little playing time. Many other black athletes at nearly all-white colleges, received the same treatment.

He enjoyed his course work, and spent enough time on campus to have watched Lou Gehrig blast home runs through the Journalism School windows beyond left field.

Most of his extracurricular and social activities, however, occurred off campus. On the weekends, he spent time in nearby Harlem, seeing friends and going to parties. His party reveling didn't include drinking, however. For his whole life, he refrained from drinking alcohol.

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