Afraid of being found a fraud? You're not alone - Zat is a common fear

Hart is a splendid writer and speaker. This story, from the Post, reflects the anxiety of being a fraud perfectly!

Hart Pomerantz: Saving Dr. Reik

It was 1961, my first year of university, and I was muddling my way through as always, trying to figure out where the classrooms were located being my most difficult academic chore. I had bought no textbooks because they were expensive and too heavy to carry. I walked with the crowd of students pretending to be one of them but deep down I realized I had no real interest in being amongst this elite group of people who were so enthusiastic about higher learning. I was a lost soul adhering to the flow of excited students like lint on a collar; the bird in the ear of the rhino; the little fish hitching a free ride on the back of the whale, but begrudgingly there, nonetheless. I had passed into college through sheer momentum, not desire. I was never that interested in school, and it showed very early on.

Once during an English exam in Grade 3, we had to write a composition on how we spent the summer. As the others dove into the task with exuberance and passion I sat there looking around at all the activity with amazement and envy. Where did they get their ideas, what were they writing about and why was I stymied? I went to camp and did the same things they all did, but at this moment in time I could not think of one thing to write about. I was struck dumb. Toward the end of the allotted 20 minutes I stabbed at the empty page managing to eke out the following story: "I swam."

That's how it was for me all through school, but somehow I managed to move ever forward. It was pure torture, being stretched ever so slowly on the rack of education. Each year they pulled my limbs a little further out of their sockets, yet I hung in.

In Grade 13 I took biology. On the exam they asked us to describe a fish that we had learned about that year. I couldn't recall anything about any fish being taught, so I decided to answer about the only fish that I was familiar with. I wrote about the gefilte. I said that "it was an unusual fish in that it was totally round, and instead of swimming, it travelled by truck. Unlike all other fish, it also had a piece of orange carrot on its head and lived mostly in jars." Nonetheless, I managed to acquire the requisite average to enter the University of Toronto. 

During my university days, I started reading about psychoanalysis. I couldn't exactly understand the details, so I inhaled the aroma instead. The concepts somehow appeared familiar. I picked up a book by the eminent psychoanalyst Theodor Reik, Listening With the Third Ear. It was about understanding personality and the mind by intuition and careful listening, not by reasoning and other scientific methods. I thought of myself as that type of person — a natural born seer.

One day in the fall of 1960 I heard that the great Dr. Reik was coming to speak at Hillel House, a Jewish organization run by university students. I was very excited and decided to attend and see my hero in person. Putting on my Harris tweed sports jacket and grey flannel pants I tried to look the part of a serious student. I even bought a pipe for the occasion, which I sucked on tobacco-less and unlit. Arriving early, I sat myself in the front row, directly facing the podium, and watched as the room filled to overflowing capacity with real students who had actual tobacco in their pipes.

The smart guys were all there with their larger frontal lobes protruding from their foreheads, their skin stretching to almost the breaking point from overflowing brains. As well, they all possessed clever hair and sported dark framed glasses, giving them a look of intellectuality and confidence, which made me shrivel. They were the heavy hitters, Herschel Fineberg, Larry Reisman, Sydney Goldbloom, Morry Blumenthal, all geniuses ready to attack any illogical statement made by the speaker, ready to shred him to bits at the slightest miscue, yet reverent in homage to the great man. I was out of my league amongst them, yet determined to be part of the group.

The tension rose as Rabbi Klienberg walked to the podium to introduce Dr. Reik. After reviewing the doctor's close relationship with Freud and his enormous body of published works on psychoanalysis, he finally introduced him. Dr. Reik then rose to tumultuous applause. He was old, maybe in his early 80s, slightly bent with a white Freudian beard and thick glasses. He began to speak in a soft voice to the audience, but appeared to direct most of the dissertation into his tie. The smart guys applauded from time to time and appeared to comprehend it all, even the parts he left out. He used words like "zis" and "zat" and sounded very German. I understood little even though I had read the book. It was like I'd read Moby Dick and all I remembered was that it was about a fish. But I was happy to be there amongst the intelligentsia, one of the followers of the great one.

After a longish question-and-answer period where all the smart guys showed off their knowledge and insight, Dr. Reik called it a day and slowly walked away from the podium, led by the rabbi and the senior students who were on the board of directors of the institute.

They snaked their way down the hall toward the rabbi's study. The smart guys looked on in awe as the great doctor walked close by them. It was as if they were in synagogue and the rabbi was carrying the Torah around the congregation while each person reached out and kissed it with his prayer shawl. Such was the mood — religious reverence, with a touch of celebrity.

I watched and felt an urge to join the inner circle in the rabbi's study, so I attached myself to the back of the line of the entourage and quietly entered the office with the big guys. I sat down right next to Dr. Reik and was met with horrible grimaces by the others who had no idea who this interloper was. The rabbi glanced over at me and his nostrils contracted as if he had detected a bad odour. Nobody said a word out of fear of embarrassing the honoured guest, yet there was obvious disgruntlement on all their faces as they realized a stowaway had snuck on board.

I sucked on my pipe and nodded approval as the great one talked on and on about the subconscious, projection, the ego and other hard stuff. Every so often, I softly muttered the words "zis" and "zat" to no one in particular.I understood little. But it was exciting to be sitting next to a giant.

Toward the end of the evening Dr. Reik relit his cigar with a wooden match. As he started to inhale, his right hand, which he waived weakly back and forth to extinguish the match, failed to deliver the intended result, and the match continued burning unbeknownst to him.

Everyone in the room saw what was happening but for some reason they were too intimidated to tell the great one that he was about to catch fire. The tension grew exponentially as the doctor droned on unaware of the impending pain. The rabbi's eyes were closed in silent prayer.

The students began to sweat and turn away. I could not bear my hero being barbecued, so I bent my head down to his right hand which was resting on his lap and blew out the match. He felt the breeze on his hand and looked down and said "Young man, vat are you doing down dere?"

I looked up at his face and said, "I vas looking for insights." That's all I could think of. My hero looked slightly confused but quickly resumed speaking to the group. The rabbi looked aghast, but relieved. I winked at him and gave the OK sign. He turned his head, looking elsewhere. I left that night feeling good about my heroic intervention, but I resolved then and there to search for all future insights in the library.
James Morton
1100 - 5255 Yonge Street
Toronto, Ontario
M2N 6P4