Bob Hawkinson

My good grades at Willamette came in math, not political science. And I was not one of the lucky ones from the Class of 88, who had Bob Hawkinson for American Politics (only long after did I learn from Bob about the right-leaning tendencies of Roger Karz). Come to think of it, in both the American Ideas class, and the de Tocqueville Seminar I took from Bob, my GPA went down, not up. But that didn't change the fact that when it came time to talk about law schools, I had to talk to Bob Hawkinson. And when we confronted what I now know to be the picaune issues involved in student government, he was a willing ear and a ready ally. For the many years I spent on Willamette's Alumni Board and several years on the Board of Trustees, the sight of no one else at Willamette brought a smile to my face as readily as the sight of Bob Hawkinson.

Bob was serious. But he was fun. He was genuine. He was focused. He was willing to engage at all levels of discourse – Plato? He's there. Kicker? No problem. FDR? Tammany Hall? He's in heaven.

 

So at about the 20-years-past-graduation point, we (well really, Eric and Rebecca Friedenwald-Fishman) invited Bob for dinner. It was a nice summer evening, with gorgeous light streaming through the Dutch Elms and Maples. Having a drink on the porch, we heard what seemed like an unusual protest din. Perhaps a Critical Mass ride up Hawthorne? No ... too constant. Maybe something downtown, where the sounds drift east? No, it was clearly too close for that. So the three of us ventured forth, up to Hawthorne Boulevard – Bob joining us in our venture. Lo and behold, a kind of picket line. Not a Chicago picket line, mind you, but a Portland picket line – how dare Sel Gris serve Foie Gras!?! Mon Dieu! Given that it was a local restaurant, an awesome local restaurant, we couldn't resist, picket line be damned. The slurs and slander that accompanied our entrance were soon forgotten, as the chef sent us a bottle of champagne, after we explained that if those idiots were going to protest, we were going to respond. With champagne under our belts (and perhaps another drink), we left, again to the deafening jeers of the crowd outside (the police officer said I should perhaps move along, instead of confronting the slacker who screamed about his desire for my death ...huh?).  How could one script a better Bob Hawkinson moment?  The protest, the message, the response?  It was politics personalized; it was experiencing the tumult.

 

Several hours later, it turns out, after a meal strewn with hyperbole, debate and laughter, I said my last goodbye to Professor Hawkinson. I wish I could see him again.