Tribute to Irving J. Saltzman

We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Irving J. Saltzman. Our voices are raised in a chorus of thanksgiving that he walked among us, for so many years. And we also give thanks for his offspring, both biological sons and daughters as well as intellectual brainchildren. I consider Dr. Saltzman to be among my wise mentors at Indiana University.

I came under the influence of the chairman of the psychology department in the late 1970s, when I was an undergraduate psychology major. But the story has a prehistory that starts about ten years earlier. I met Robbie Saltzman in 1966, when we were 7th graders at Binford Junior High School. He and I were members of a fluid and overlapping circle of friends. We "hung out" together on occasion and probably shared a few classes too, but we were not best friends. I had this secret feeling, never expressly articulated, that Robbie and I shared membership in the intellectual elite at school. Then we became members of the 99th (and final) class to graduate from the old Bloomington High School, in 1972. As sophomores, Rob and I took Mr. Lumbley’s chemistry course. In a class filled with juniors and seniors, we held our own. After graduation, we went our separate ways and lost touch. At that time, I had no idea that Rob’s father would help out so much in my pursuit of higher education.

In 1976, I landed at IU as a psychology major. With few ideas except an overarching interest in science and vague notions of helping people, my ambitions were refined and tempered within a demanding yet nurturing department. I gradually became aware that Dr. Saltzman had a major role in shaping the substance and style of this nationally ranked research and teaching center. With the help of Professor Eliot Hearst, I launched an ambitious project to document the history of psychology at Indiana University. I had countless conversations with Dr. Saltzman, who came to IU in 1948 at the beginning of the postwar flood of faculty and students. In addition to his knowledge about psychology and psychologists, the chair ensured that I would have access to other faculty and departmental resources. I think that was easy for Dr. Saltzman to provide, because under his guidance, the department was an open place, dedicated to students and the research process. If you could prove that you were engaged in serious, disciplined scholarship, the doors would be opened.

During my senior year, I saw another side of this remarkable man. He was the instructor for P101, Introductory Psychology, and I was his undergraduate teaching assistant. With some 250 students each semester — mostly freshman — the course demonstrated psychology’s massive but often-misapprehended appeal. Few realized exactly what was in store. Instead of psychoanalysis and Freud they got physiological psychology and the neobehaviorists. Content, however, was the least of my concerns. More pressing were the administrative chores and academic counseling expected of me. In preparing the Room 100 lecture hall in the Psychology Building, I felt a bit like a stage manager, turning on the lights, checking the microphone, and readying audiovisual materials for the featured performer. Dr. Saltzman, wearing a bow tie that had been donned seconds earlier, would stride in at the appointed hour and deliver a polished lecture. When he returned to his office after the lecture, the bow tie would be removed and there it would stay until the next class. Inevitably, this act would remind me of the story, told in Eliot Hearst’s history class, of how psychologist Edward Titchener, the great structuralist, would put on his Oxford academic robe before addressing his undergraduate students at Cornell. The parallel led me to dub Dr. Saltzman the "Bow Tie Titchener," a sobriquet used affectionately within my circle of friends.

I went away to graduate school on the East Coast, but I stayed in touch with the Department. As I became older, I grew more comfortable in calling Dr. Saltzman by his first name. At the department centennial in 1988, Eliot Hearst and I dedicated the monograph Psychology at Indiana University: A Centennial Review and Compendium to Irv, the greatest chairman of the Department ever. This occasion also marked his 40th anniversary of service to the university.

When I returned to IU as a new faculty member ten years ago, I had sporadic contact with Irv, who continued to counsel me with his characteristic blend of wisdom and humor. I also became deeply appreciative of Dottie Saltzman’s efforts to establish the Children’s Corner Cooperative Nursery School in the 1950s. This vibrant educational enterprise was still going strong after 40 years. My own three children attended there for a total of seven years, gaining a healthy foundation for their further development. I shall be everlastingly grateful for Dottie’s foresight and hard work.

In conclusion, I feel very fortunate to have come into contact with three remarkable human beings in Rob, Irv, and Dottie. Through his caring stewardship, Irv made the psychology department the heart of my alma mater. For me and for many others, he was always there to offer a helping hand. His memory will constantly be with me. He, along with Herman Wells, created a beautiful place of learning in this university, and provided a space for me to grow and to learn.

I should like to end with a poem by Joyce Grenfell.

Remarks prepared for Irving J. Saltzman Memorial Service, Whittenberger Auditorium, Indiana Memorial Union, 13 May 2000, by James H. Capshew.