Ahlquist: last professor of the original 13

Story By Don Weberg
Photos by Dexter Bercero
Summer Forty-Niner

Looking for Cal State Long Beach in 1949, then Los Angeles/Orange County College, was quite a challenge. Ask anyone on the street for directions, and the response led directly to Long Beach City College.

That was exactly where Dr. Irving Ahlquist, professor of history, was told when he began searching for the new, swampy campus -- a frustrating, and embarrassing, task for anyone who has just moved his family halfway across the country.

"When we got here, there was no campus," Ahlquist said with a smile. "I was supposed to hold classes in the Park Estates Apartments across the street."

At 81, Ahlquist is the sole survivor of the 13 original faculty members hired to teach the first student body of 169 at the university. Now living in Los Alamitos, the professor seems to be a man enjoying life to the fullest.

Bearing a slight resemblance to a happy, and better kept, Fred Mertz from the "I Love Lucy Show" of the 1950s, Ahlquist has a smile that can warm the heart of anyone around him. His voice sounds as if he is smiling and chuckling most of the time, like a happy child, and his brisk walk is as quick as his wit. Frequently running errands with his high school sweetheart wife, Ruth, he seems comfortable sporting a polo shirt, soft leather loafers over dress socks and khaki slacks. Casual and loose, his dress is sharp nonetheless.

The way here

A seemingly jolly man who appears to always wear a smile and a gleam in his eyes, Ahlquist loves to teach.

"I'm not just teaching history," he said. "I'm teaching people."

Following his military discharge in 1946, Ahlquist's moved to Cedar Falls, Iowa, to teach at what was then called the Iowa State Teachers College, now known as Iowa State University. After two years, the Midwestern winters grew. One day, opportunity walked into a bookstore by the name of Dr. P. Victor Peterson, CSULB's founding president.

"I met Dr. Peterson, when the owner of the bookstore introduced us," he said. "When he mentioned he was getting a university under way at Long Beach, I said I would love to go to California."

The following Monday, after a weekend of checking credentials, Peterson called Ahlquist and asked if he wanted to move to Southern California. Without hesitation Ahlquist resigned from his position at Cedar Falls and moved his wife and 3-year-old son to California. Not even a pay raise could keep them in Iowa, he said.

"Peterson lived in San Jose, so we went through there to see him and we had a wonderful dinner at his home," Ahlquist said.

Work begins

Ahlquist remembers a handful of students he's taught. And the ones he recalls best are those from the original classes.

School started in the fall of '49 with a salary of about $4,000 per year. He was the only professor in history.

"They somehow found out that my minor had been in sociology and asked me to teach a class called ‘Crime and Delinquency,' " he said, chuckling. "My dad was a detective, so I guess I learned about crime through osmosis."

Preparing for four different classes, history of California, medieval history, principles of sociology and history of the Pacific Ocean area, Ahlquist said the class load was very heavy -- especially considering there was no library.

"I used the ones at UCLA and Long Beach City College," he said.

Then there was the classroom painting.

"The painters would ask us all to move to the center of the class, so that they could work around us," he said, smiling at the memory.

Because of the work, they frequently held class outside in the courtyard area of the complex. The offices were near comical.

"My office was a bedroom, the bathroom was used for storage. It was really pioneering," he said. "They were excellent days, well remembered."

Getting acquainted

"Back then, the students really got to know you," Ahlquist said.

One of those students used to work for a medical doctor in Beverly Hills.

"The doctor had a great collection of DaVinci," he said. "We went to his office and he conducted a seminar for us. It's an example of what can happen in a smaller situation."

Ahlquist has kept in touch with a few of his students, including some from his first class, more than 50 years ago.

"One student came back to the 50th anniversary and she's 90," he said. "I remembered her, because when she was in my class, she was working as a nurse for a doctor."

One of his better known students was Isabel Patterson, the second editor of the Forty-Niner. He recalls Patterson earning an A-minus because she was an English major who had a few grammar mistakes in her papers. He laughs, recalling when he explained to her why grammar errors from an English major were inexcusable.

"She was a neat person, she came from Texas with almost no money, but died a millionaire," he said, beaming of his student's many accomplishments.

Darkness Falls

No matter how exciting or enlightening a career is, a dark side eventually emerges. For Dr. Ahlquist, the shadows fell in the 1960s. The turmoil caused by the Vietnam War and the political upheaval of the time made it the most challenging era to teach. "They were very rebellious in those days," he said. Several students even tried to talk him into letting them choose their own readings, an idea he rejected.

"That would have been a disservice," he said. "I would tell them they are paying for the class to learn and that I am here to help them."

Rebellion was not limited to. One professor Ahlquist remembered gave all his students A's, no matter what they did. The reason, the professor justified, was to keep the students in school and out of the war.

"No one wants blood on their hands," Ahlquist said.

Kind nature

Once there was a student who was so late to a final exam, failure was assured. Ahlquist told the discouraged student to get a soda, relax and meet him at his office in a while. The student showed up at Ahlquist's office, and he was told to take the test, which he passed easily. The student was so panicked over the situation that he later confessed to Ahlquist he considered suicide.

"I'm a sympathetic man," he said. "It's not the A students versus the C students. They've all got something to offer."

The same student made Ahlquist a wood candle-holder, which Ahlquist still keeps in his bedroom. The student told him to light a candle in it to remember him by.

"I think of him each time I see it," he said.

Closing chapters

In 1983, Ahlquist took early retirement but went on teaching part-time. It's one of his passions and had to be eased into gradually, he said. By 1989, he retired entirely. On the day of the final exam, students threw a surprise party for him.

"I showed up to the class and it was all dark," he said. "When I walked in, the light came on and all my students were there with a banner and a cake."

Referring to him as the general, many students saluted him.

In 1991, the history department asked if he would be interested in supervising graduate students.

"Each semester now, I work with about four student-teachers," he said. "I really like that. The College of Liberal Arts has done so much for me."

When he isn't teaching at CSULB, he is usually teaching a class of about 150 people at his church, or spending time with his family.

"My fun now is being with my grandchildren," he said. After 50 years of service to the university, Ahlquist says he has few bad memories of his work.

"I'm proud of my association with CSULB and feel it was the right choice," he said.