One of the main reasons I never went back was because I was already doing what I wanted to do. I was organizing people. It was a thrill to me then and it’s a thrill to me now. I also came to realize that a great deal of my graduate studies in organizational theory and administrative structures, my research skills and my ideas about administrative overload could come in very handy when battling large formal institutions like non-profit hospitals and their governmental allies.
I can’t remember who but someone said to me that an old lady in an apartment building next to Methodist Hospital on 7th Avenue in my neighborhood had received an eviction order from the Hospital. I said I would look her up. This was obviously a minor misunderstanding. Hospitals can’t issue eviction notices. I could clear this up quickly and still get my dissertation done. As it turned out I spent the next three years of my life working almost full time on this “misunderstanding.”
I found the apartment houses. They were four stories high and took up the whole front of the block facing 7th Avenue between 6th and 7th Streets. They were rent-controlled apartments. This meant the rent was low and fixed. It also meant it would take the city’s legal bulldozer to get anyone out if they wanted to stay.
I found the elderly lady. This apartment was her home. This was hard for me to understand having grown up in the west where most people, even poor and working class people can have a house for a home. I was soon to learn, however, that these apartments were in fact homes that had history, families and lifelong experiences living within their walls.
She said she had to move out of her home because the hospital wanted to expand and she does not want to stand in the way of a hospital expansion. Plus, she has received an eviction notice from the hospital. I gently asked her if she could show me the eviction notice. She handed me a letter which was from the hospital’s Housing department. It asked her to leave and offered her a couple hundred dollars in moving costs. I told her this was not an eviction notice and that she did not need to leave. She said she still didn’t want to stand in the way of a hospital expanding.
I asked the hospital for their plans for this piece of property. They were intending to build a parking lot for their doctors on top of these people’s homes. I started telling each and every person in that block of apartments these two things: There is no eviction notice and the hospital plans to demolish your homes for a parking lot so their doctors who live in Long Island aren’t inconvenienced when they come into work. Soon we were putting up signs in each window saying, “We Won’t Move” and the battle was on.
Once the Hospital realized people are no longer going to move by sending a letter, they started upping the ante.
They first sent us a letter from the hospital’s lawyer saying not to use their name in our organization’s name. No “Methodist Hospital” in the Tenants Association. I showed that to a lawyer friend of mine and he said a hospital legal action against us will only strengthen our position so we forgot about their letter.
They next tried to threaten me. Of course, like all threats, it really wasn’t a threat. Threats are kind of like sexual harassment. If you call them on it, they say they were only joking, can’t you take a joke? What’s wrong with you? Are you paranoid? Relax. Get a life.
The chief engineer of the hospital asked to speak to me. I went to see him. I still can see him vaguely in my mind… a nice-looking man, white skinned, 50ish, Norwegian variety, an engineer. He was sincere, hoping to help me out. “You know, Dan,” he said to me. “This is an old Italian neighborhood and these Italians have been having their babies in this hospital and their old people have been dying here for years. They are very emotionally attached to Methodist Hospital.” I sat there waiting for the punchline. “And, you know, Dan”, he said, “they are really upset by all the criticism of the Hospital and, if I were you, I’d watch my step. They’re emotional, you know.” I thanked him and left his office.
Was that a threat? I didn’t know since I was new to the threat business, but I started to pay more attention to the street. I tried to walk like you wouldn’t want to fuck with me. I found myself turning around when a car door slammed on the street. It didn’t deter me from my organizing, but it made me nervous.
The hospital started raising the amount of money it was offering tenants to move out. Over the course of the next three years, it went from nothing to move, to $350 to move to $14,000 plus to move. If they got someone to move, they would board up the outside windows of the apartment and board up the front door of the apartment. It got tougher and tougher to stay there even though a tenant in a non-controlled rental market would exhaust these funds in less than a year.
There were some people, however, who could use those funds. Young people who wanted to buy a brownstone. This was my introduction to one type of Marxist. It turned out that one of the tenants in the Tenants of Methodist Hospital Association was a famous New Left radical, a former leader of the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). He and his wife lived in one of the buildings, but had not been active in the Association. I had never thought much about his inactivity. I assumed he was busy with more important things.
He did get active when the offer got up to $14,000. He told me that my organizing had little meaning since the Capitalist system would come apart, not due to my organizing, but due to its own internal contradictions and, plus, he and his wife could use that $14,000 to buy a home for themselves. I never did like the New Left leadership much and I liked them less after this ideologue helped split the internal solidarity of the tenant group that had withstood all the external threats with heroic defiance.
The hospital hired new consultants to convince the community of the need for the hospital expansion. It was so much fun reading their reports, tearing them apart and then waiting for them to show up at a community meeting. These consultants weren’t from Brooklyn. They didn’t know the community nor give a shit about it. They were wheelers and dealers, looking for “community leaders” they could make a deal with. I swear to God this one fast talking, liberal-lipped consultant from Manhattan had to get tight before he could face a community meeting. We were all over him and, plus, we wouldn’t deal.
The hospital also started creating dummy corporations to begin buying more property on both sides of the hospital block. It was easy to spot a dummy corporation on a block near Methodist hospital. First of all there had not been much property turnover on these blocks and plus, if there was a legitimate purchase, it would be in a family’s name, not some corporate name. The difficulty, of course, was attaching the dummy corporation to the Hospital. This took some doing.
Hospital employees lived in some of these units on the expansion block and I had never been able to organize them into resisting the hospital for obvious reasons. They were just too vulnerable to hospital retaliation.
That’s what was so surprising about a call I received early one Sunday morning. They said they wanted to talk to me and would I come over to their place. I said, of course. I thought this must be a breakthrough. The houses they lived in were the only ones on the entire expansion block that were not in resistance to the hospital’s plans.
I went over to the three story brownstone and was met at the door by a pretty young black woman, maybe Haitian. She ushered me up the stairs into a second floor room. It was empty and, as I turned around to her, she had left and closed the door. The room, however, was not empty. Three or four large black men were there. They introduced themselves as “Black September” (in reference to an armed group in the Middle East) and told me that they never wanted to see my ass on the hospital expansion block again. I looked for windows, but it was the second floor. I started talking nonstop about the purity of my intentions and they finally moved aside so I could go out the door and leave the brownstone.
I was scared shitless and started wandering around the neighborhood wondering what to do. I remembered that the Elks club was open on Sunday’s and made my way there for a drink. I started telling my fellow alcoholics what had just happened to me. I didn’t know it, but two of Ronald’s runners overheard what I said.
Ronald was someone who lived across the street from the hospital, but on the opposite side of the hospital from the expansion block. Ronald’s block was all three and four story brownstones. Ronald was a beautiful Italian man; always perfectly dressed, beautiful black hair combed back, long black overcoats. Ronald parked his Cadillac in the hospital’s parking lot across the street from his brownstone. Rumors were that Ronald worked as Assistant Director of the Brooklyn zoo, but Ronald always seemed to be on the street, followed by these two younger guys always doing push ups, or something physical.
Ronald’s guys came up to me at the bar and said Ronald wanted to talk to me. They pointed me to a room off the bar. I went over to the room and there was Ronald, beautiful as ever, but very agitated.
“Dan,” he said. “I know you are a straight up guy, a moral guy, a nice guy, but Dan,” he continued, getting more agitated and slamming one of his fists into his other hand, “Sometimes, sometimes, you just got to hit ‘em. Now, give me the names of those guys who threatened you!!”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Ronald wasn’t upset because I had been threatened, even though he didn’t like the hospital any more than I did. In fact, the hospital had recently told Ronald he couldn’t park his Cadillac in the parking lot anymore which led to a lot of smashed windows in the parking lot.
No, Ronald was not upset about who was threatened. He was upset about who was doing the threatening. These people didn’t realize that it was Ronald and not them that did the threatening around here!
I told Ronald who they were and where they lived. I also never felt nervous on the streets of South Brooklyn again. Whether it was true or not, I felt I was under Ronald’s protection. This was especially true when I found out that the hospital was connected to dummy corporations buying up brownstones on Ronald’s block.
I’m not too sure where I got the idea, but I started going down to the King County (Brooklyn) courthouse and looking up property ownership in my neighborhood. Maybe it was my graduate school training, but I knew the population, ethnic breakdown, history and social/economic statistics of Park Slope, Brooklyn. But those large old books called the Tickler Blocks told me a great deal more about my neighborhood.
I made up maps of the blocks around the Hospital expansion blocks. I could tell who lived there, what ethnic group was there, what change in ownership was taking place and, for my purposes, was there any hint of Methodist Hospital involvement in new purchases, especially via dummy corporations.
This became something I did whenever I got involved in a community fight, especially if I was not from that community. I made up a property map. An “outside agitator” can learn a great deal this way. And, when you are in fact an outsider, you can gain a great deal of credibility by knowing the community better than those who have lived there for generations. Plus, a lot of community fights are about land acquisition, turnover, and profit taking by those who make money turning it over.
We had some fun with those dummy corporations too. A neighbor of mine was a high echelon corporate executive in some Manhattan firm. I gave him the name of the dummy corporation and the name of the principal on most corporate papers, John Haggarty. My neighbor had his firm order a credit check on the corporate entity. I can’t remember how we knew this upset or slowed down its activities, but we knew it did and we also learned about the use of credit for land turnover schemes.
The dummy corporations also had their fun with us. You see, when you buy a rent controlled apartment house, the new owner had the right to evict one person for their own personal use. They would evict someone on the first floor and bring in a bunch of dope smoking assholes from Manhattan to stay up all night, play loud music and intimidate people who lived on the upper floors, often elderly people. In order to see these other tenants, I had to get past these assholes and, at one point, I actually hired a friend of mine, a broke artist, but also a martial arts expert as my bodyguard. I was beginning to wonder whether I was really willing to die to defend these buildings.
What I discovered in the Tickler Blocks was that one of the dummy corporations that bought property on the expansion block had brought a brownstone on Ronald’s block. This was a big “no no”. It was one thing for the Hospital to take over a block populated primarily by small rent controlled buildings full of low income tenants, but it was something else to threaten middle class up and comers who lived in brownstones.
I organized the Park Slope Preservation Council on the brownstone blocks from 7th to 9th streets, between 7th and 8th avenues. Nice name, huh? Its purpose was to fend off any movement by the Hospital to expand in their direction. There I met Marilyn and Robert Clare. They lived on 9th street. She was short and feisty and he was tall and good looking, but with a noticeable limp. I found out later that he got the limp from standing on the floor of the Stock exchange all day making trades. He wore nice clothes, alright, but he was a worker nonetheless, an injured one at that.
The folks on this end of the slope were “conservative” in the sense that they saw themselves as having worked hard to get their brownstone and they were prepared to defend themselves. They weren’t “political” – didn’t belong too, nor were they active in either local party.
But, when I told them that a dummy corporation had just purchased a brownstone on one of their blocks some felt no compunction about going into the first floor landing and removing usable documents, like bank statements, from the mail slots and using their contacts to look for vulnerabilities. Beware of the American homeowner. As someone said, the American people are socially conservative and economically radical. That’s why the left always approaches them from the wrong direction: with radical social proposals and conservative economic ones, but that’s another story.
We tried everything we knew to stop the expansion. First, we knew that we had to hold our position. We learned this from the Quakers. You have to get position on your enemy so that they have to move you and you don’t have to move them. We knew that as long as the tenants would not move we were in a stronger position. We put up “We Won’t Move” signs in the street facing windows of the apartments. It’s a defensive position, but still a strong one.
We took aim at the hospital. Cut off their funds. We looked up every federal, state and local source of funding for the hospital and all the requirements they needed to get their projects built. We did our best to jam them up, slow them down, cost them more money, cut off their funds. Knowing governmental administrative systems, regulatory systems became very important. The exhaustion of administrative remedies and administrative overload are two things to keep in mind. Make these systems follow their own rules and things will slow down.
We wanted to de-legitimize their leadership. Annie Boylon and I had been in the Peace Corps together in Turkey. I got her to make up a “student” project. She sent a letter to every member of the Hospital’s Board of Trustees and asked them for their resumes. She said she was doing a community leadership project. Believe it or not about two-thirds of the Board answered her letter with a resume.
I took all those resumes and made up a statistical profile of the Board. Then, I compared that profile to the socio economic profile of the Park Slope community. There turned out to be two completely different profiles in terms of class, status, profession, income, location, etc. I let everyone know that the Board did not reflect the community. This does not sound like much today, but in the context of the sixties, it meant a good deal.
We started translating their projects into names that carried the truth. For instance, the Chairman of the Board was a man named Mytrop. Instead of referring to the proposed structure of housing and parking as Seney House, we called it “Mytropp’s Motor Inn.”
We actually invaded the Hospital at one point in order to hold the Board hostage while it was meeting on the top floor of the hospital. It was a strategic success because we knew the terrain and we had role played the whole event. We all got off at different floors to visit different patients, went up the stairs to the top floor, reunited, and then blocked the doors to the Boardroom until they had to come out or let us in. Either way they had to meet with us.
We also devised a way to mount a street protest against the Hospital which is tricky business. First of all it is a hospital with sick people inside. Second, it is technically a quiet zone, except for the ambulances arriving. Plus, it is a religious institution, not just a hospital, but a Methodist hospital. All those things meant you had to be careful with your organizing or you would lose the moral high ground in the face of the community you needed.
We decided on a religious oriented protest, like a pilgrimage, a silent procession, a prayer service, a walk to say your rosary. We put up well designed signs by my artist friend all over the neighborhood calling for a silent, evening procession to encircle the hospital. Bring candles, not chants.
I stood there about twenty minutes before start time. Anybody coming? Organizers make judgments about what a community is prepared to do and then offer up an action. Sometimes they take it, sometimes they don’t. We walked around the expansion block first. By the time we crossed the street and walked around the hospital block we had enough people to completely encircle the block. That was a lot of people.
Those people came from several years of organizing community allies. Going to every forum, every community meeting, putting the hospital expansion issue on their agendas, getting them to take a position. Someone told me all I was doing was winning Pyrrhic victories, but that procession said it was more than that.
Park Slope in the late sixties and early seventies was a neighborhood in transition. The student radicals from their university days moved into community organizing work. RYM II (Revolutionary Youth Movement II) waited for high school students outside of John Jay High school on 8th avenue to show them how tough (and “working class”) they were. They saw working class high school kids as the latest agency of revolution, at least at that moment. A Weatherman collective lived next down to my 2nd floor brownstone rental on 14th street, doing what I don’t know, but they did attract unmarked Chevy Caprices that idled outside my door. One thing amazed me about these revolutionaries who called for armed struggle. They did not doorbell with me on neighborhood issues, nor come to drink with me in the Irish bars on 7th Avenue because they were afraid of the people behind the doors and the Irish cops who drank alongside us armed with guns and high on Jameson.
Pete Hamill’s family lived in Park Slope. Pete himself, now a semi-famous writer for the Village Voice and the New York Post, showed up from time to time. He opposed the Vietnam War and got beat up by other Irishmen for his stance when he entered McManus’ bar on 16th street. His dad still lived on 13th street.
Park Slope used to be an Irish neighborhood, but by the time I got there in the late sixties, the Irish had pretty much left, except for the bars on 7th avenue where I hung out. I first thought they had moved because African Americans were close to the neighborhood just across Flatbush Avenue but I was mistaken. I learned they moved out to Staten Island or to Queens as a way of making sure their wives would not come to bother them at their 7th avenue hang out and because of the other dark-skinned destroyer of property values, the Italian, who invaded Park Slope by moving up from Red Hook.
Reform Democrats bought up brownstones between 7th and 8th avenues up to Prospect Park, stripping off the plaster, exposing the brick walls, cleaning out the ground floors so they could rent them out and pay for the mortgage. They vied for control of the party with the old-line, Italian ward bosses. The Ds’ used the delivery of city services to build their constituencies, just like the old ward bosses, but their delivery mechanism was different. They set up “neighborhood task forces” to circumvent the old bureaucracies they did not control. The Ds also put a lot of effort into “block parties” and during the summer the streets were alive with block parties, offering music, food and recruiting grounds.
The former new lefties came into this mix and began building their own community infrastructure. They organized a food cooperative below 7th avenue on 5th street. It was in a garage-like building with enough room for a large refrigerator and some retail space. On the second floor, we started our political organization, the Mongoose Club, which we supported by small monthly donations. It was our meeting place, where speakers came and events took place. I’m told the Park Slope Food Cooperative is now a giant enterprise, but the Mongoose Club is long gone.
We also had a DMZ coffee house for kids concerned about the draft. We had Park Slope People Against the War, the Park Slope Community Coalition, Park Slope this and Park slope that. We had anti-war marches down 7th avenue and marches to protest police brutality. The Machete organization met in a 5th avenue storefront and studied Franz Fanon’s relationship to struggle in the US. The VVAW, the Vietnam Veterans Against the War, had a chapter in our neighborhood and worked in day care centers or preschools, anywhere that reminded them of life rather than death. We had a poetry club and community potlucks. The neighborhood vibrated and the hospital fight took advantage of all that movement.
I also started writing for the local paper, the Park Slope News, the largest Brooklyn weekly at the time. I started covering all these movement activities for the paper and, of course, made sure all of my “pyrrhic” victories made the paper. I carefully clipped all those articles and reproduced them to show forward motion, momentum. I also clipped them to show them to the people holding out in those buildings. I am not sure why this is true, but people can’t see themselves very easily. An organizer needs to show people acting. It’s why you always turn a march so people can see themselves. It’s also why you show them newspaper articles about themselves. They come to believe what they already know is true, but don’t really believe it.
We also learned about movement building propaganda and strategy games. My close friend, the artist/martial arts expert, made up a poster for me and I dutifully plastered the neighborhood with it. It showed a two headed person under the title “Methodist Hospital: Myths and Facts.” It was put out by the Tenants of Methodist Hospital Association, a group closely associated with my work.
On the “myth” side the head was that of a kindly doctor radiating concern and dedication and responding positively to the community needs for low cost housing, satellite clinics, preventive medicine, community control, jobs and training. On the “facts” side, however, the kindly doctor’s head had more of a pig-like countenance and smoked a cigar while feeding public tax money to profit taking realtors, consultants, medical suppliers and insurance companies and stamping on community demands with a heavy boot. An organization called Health PAC based itself in New York City and their analysis identified non-profit hospitals as the center for America’s Health Empire, using their revenue to build real estate empires rather than health care systems. My poster reflected that analysis.
As it turned out, I distributed this poster at the same time that Methodist Hospital learned I worked for the Quaker Project on Community Conflict. The hospital leaders had first accused me of simply experimenting with the community in order to finish my dissertation at New York University.
The Quaker Project trained all the marshals for the great anti-war marches in Washington, D.C., but as that activity began to slow down they turned their attention to community organizing projects. I came on staff about half way through my organizing against Methodist Hospital. I received the hefty salary of $300/month, a $50/month phone allowance, lots of good advice from seasoned organizers and a lifelong understanding about how much trouble a relatively free individual can cause “the system.”
Methodist Hospital sent the Quakers my poster and asked why they attacked another religion. The Quakers asked me to come in for a sit down. They knew I organized tenants against expanding hospitals, but didn’t know how I was doing that. At that meeting, I got my first lesson on what they meant by a “movement building” action. My two headed poster presented an analysis of the relationship between the Hospital and the community. Maybe it correctly identified the relationship, but the poster fixed the relationship. The Quakers wanted me to be building a movement for community health care. So did I.
The next poster I helped distribute had a collage of photos from all over Park Slope as backdrop to a drawing of a young, female doctor walking in the neighborhood. The writing on the posters said, in both English and Spanish, “Demand that Methodist Hospital Bring Health Care within reach of your Home and your Purse.” The Park Slope Poster Collective produced it. I still have both posters and sometimes use them to illustrate movement building to my students of community organizing.
The Quakers taught me about the use of role plays, guerilla theater, puppetry, civil disobedience, consensus decision making, strategy games and conflict resolution. I’ve used most of these things in my organizing over the years, except conflict resolution. I always saw my role as expanding the conflict, getting it bigger, sharpening it, but not resolving it. That’s for someone else to do, especially when I came to realize the whole thing was fucked up.
The Quakers organized a strategy game on the issues of expanding hospitals versus preventive health care in the five boroughs of New York. I got to participate and became a devotee of strategy games. They organized it in one of their retreat centers somewhere in either upstate New York or Connecticut. They developed roles for all the main actors in the hospital fight from community organizers to governmental and hospital executives. It was a time event with “moves” by various individuals and organizations. They kept a careful record of all the moves throughout the game. Everyone stayed in their roles. As a person playing an “organizer” I got to talk with all the people I was organizing against. I got to see what they were planning and see how they thought about their opposition.
The Quakers knew how to do this. Their careful record of “the moves” lead to the most important thing about strategy games: a discussion on why people made the moves they did, what were their motivations, their thinking behind the moves. Then, they wrote it all up. Based on this strategy game, the Citywide Save Our Homes Committee of which the Tenants of Methodist Hospital was a member, pretty much closed down the hospital expansion plans in the five boroughs. I learned several years later that our specific organizing had come close to bankrupting Methodist Hospital.
I also learned a lot from the Communist Party. Several non-tenants worked with me to keep the Tenants of Methodist Hospital strong. One middle class white woman who lived in a brownstone below Sixth Avenue always attended our meetings. Quiet and reserved, she reminded me more of a do-gooder missionary than as an organizer. One thing made her stand out, however. If a hint of racism showed up in our conversations, she wanted it addressed right then and there. Racism was everywhere in Brooklyn. It seemed like a given rather than something you stopped a meeting about.
One night when she drove me home from a meeting she said she needed to tell me something. “Dan,” she said, “I’m a member of the Communist Party.” I thought, “The Communist Party? Are you kidding? Aren’t you supposed to be in a cell somewhere plotting something or building bombs?” My Dad and I watched an early T.V. series called, “I lead Three Lives”, supposedly a story about Herb Philbrick, who lived the life of a communist, an FBI informer, and his regular life. This is all I knew about communists.
Dottie Rubin worked for International Publishers in Manhattan, the Party’s publishing house. It became a major source of books for my reading on the labor movement several years later. Her husband served as number three in the Party hierarchy after Gus Hall and someone else. The Party’s policy called for tenant organizing and Dottie was “under discipline,” as we used to say. The Party believed history is on our side, that working class victory is possible and discipline is needed over the long term. I grew to admire that discipline and the commitment it meant, especially when it challenged the racism that did in fact divide the working class.
As I learned more about the CP, I grew critical, but mainly about their relationship to the Soviet Union. I traveled to the USSR in 1976 with thirteen others on a CP Anniversary Tours trip. Over one month, we traveled all the way from Moscow and Susdal to Irkutsh near Lake Baikal and to Bratsk on the Angara River in Siberia. One of the things that amazed me was the promotion of nuclear power in the midst of overwhelming hydroelectric capacity.
When I returned to the US, I stopped in Brooklyn and ended up talking with some of my CP buddies. I told them about the dangerous promotion of nuclear power plants in the USSR. “Dan,” they said, “you don’t understand. Nuclear technology in the hands of the Capitalist system is dangerous. Nuclear technology in the hands of the workers’ state is safe.” I admired the people who said this. They were decent and dedicated organizers for better housing, improved health care and workers rights. But, at some point, their inability to criticize the USSR got in the way of their own thinking.
Despite what I learned from the Quakers and the CP about organizing, I didn’t save the buildings. The hospital tore the buildings down when they got the last tenant to move. Despite all our efforts, all the community support, all the newspaper articles, when we lost our position, we lost the fight. I think Eva Anisowitcz was the last to move.
I got to watch the destruction, walk past it, take pictures of it, cry about it, have a mental breakdown due to it. For three years, these buildings were my life, my anchor. They had become mine, me. When they came down, I came down. I couldn’t stay in my apartment; it was full of fear, I don’t know why. I was light headed, wandering around my Brooklyn neighborhood wondering what to do.
Jack Johnson, a teacher and a political comrade, owned a brownstone below Seventh Avenue. He had just purchased it and there was room for me. Jack took me in and saved my life. Told me to be quiet and rest. I did. Slowly, after several weeks, I started to be able to walk around my neighborhood. I even got past the fear of my own apartment and walked in. There was Annie Boylon, my old friend. “Hey, Dan,” she said. “You need to get a real job.” She pissed me off. “I have a real job, Annie, working for the Quakers,” I replied. “Come on, Dan,” she said. “That’s not a real job!”
I painted my bedroom a bright yellow, bought myself flowers for my room, and started asking my graduate school buddies for a job. Rick Devine now worked for the Nixon administration in charge of enforcing Affirmative Action goals on banking institutions. Rick said he wanted to hire me, but couldn’t. One of my political friends was Stanley Aronowitz who was organizing urban clinics at Staten Island Community College. He told me to apply and I did.
At the same time, Cary Hershey, another graduate school buddy, called me to tell me about a job as the first full time Director of a Cornell University center called the Human Affairs Program (HAP), located at their main campus in Ithaca, New York. I applied for that job too.
