Joanna Kempner, PhD

  In Memory of My Friend, Chuck Bosk

I never wanted to be a medical sociologist. Charles “Chuck” Bosk changed my mind. According to my records, I took his graduate seminar on the sociology of medicine during my second semester at Penn, spring of 1999. My records also indicate that he assigned us very little writing: just four response papers and an annotated bibliography. No wonder I loved him so much.  

Chuck approached health as a cultural system, filled with meaning and value. Never one to be bogged down by arbitrary disciplinary boundaries, Chuck drew on readings from history, anthropology, journalism, philosophy, and even fiction, to examine the tensions and ironies in the health system. He asked us to take notice of how journalists and creative writers observed and described the medical world and insisted there was no reason why sociologists couldn’t write just as well. His enthusiastic creativity was contagious. By the end of the course, I was hooked. 

Other senior professors had far less insight into the project, not to mention far less empathy, “Why study something so boring?” “How can you be objective while studying something you have?” I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain what Chuck knew instinctively: that their derision of a serious disease was the subject of my inquiry. Thank goodness I had a champion in my corner. Sixteen years later, Chuck insisted he celebrate with me when I won the Freidson Award for Best Book in Medical Sociology. Wandering around Seattle that evening will forever be one of my favorite memories. 

As far I was concerned, Chuck seemed to be every bit the model Ivy League professor. His office in the old McNeil Building was always crammed with books, dog-earred and stacked with framed pictures of his family adorning the shelves. His oversized and, of course, original artwork, sat on the ground and leaned against the wall, never-to-be hung. I cannot recall a time when his desk was not covered in papers to be read or graded. If the papers he returned to me are any indication, most of the articles in these stacks would eventually be covered in coffee or tea-stains (and, at least in one case, an old band-aid).

Chuck’s style has also forever imprinted on me the ideal Ivy League uniform: crinkled beige t-shirts, brown cargo shorts, and if he chose to wear shoes that day, they would be a comfortable shoe, usually a practical brand that one could buy at Benjamin Lovell, like Mephisto. I relished my time in his office, sitting across his desk in an old Poäng Ikea chair, especially as I always had far too many questions for the time allotted. 

I wasn’t the only student vying for Chuck’s time. For this, he had developed an elegant solution—once a student’s time was over, he would facilitate their exit by walking us out of their office and towards the men’s room. I eventually learned that if I needed more time, I could save a compliment about one of his recently published works until just before we reached the loo. If he bit, he’d take a lap around McNeil, earning me another ten minutes. One day, I managed to get three laps out of him. That’s nearly 30 minutes!

Sometimes, Chuck had lots of comments on my work. Other times, he simply handed me my chapter and said, “Keep writing.” That’s a great response for students like me, whose progress stalls because they fuss too much over the details. 

I also spent a considerable amount of time working with Chuck as his teaching assistant. He taught me how to teach—for example, I learned that undergraduates respond best to a syllabus that focuses on a few in-depth case studies, rather than the broad survey courses that other faculty favored. But what I most treasure about these early years was the time it afforded us to become better acquainted. 

Our classes were usually held across campus, which meant that, for the length of the semester, we’d walk back to McNeil together. I’m a nervous talker, so with some embarrassment, I remember telling him all about the drama in my life. I can still remember him telling me that he didn’t much enjoy hearing about his graduate students’ personal lives. If you know me, you won’t be surprised to hear that this didn’t stop me from over-sharing. But if you know Chuck, you won’t be surprised to hear that this didn’t stop him from opening his heart and listening. 

We also had some ridiculous experiences teaching together. One semester, Penn convinced Chuck to teach one of their first attempts at “distance learning.” Chuck asked me to TA the class. As this occurred prior to online teaching, Zoom and all that, the class was filmed “live” from Dick Clark’s old studio on 46th and Market. Students from around the country would meet at satellite locations, where they could watch the class and send us messages via computer. 

The production team sat Chuck at something that looked like a television news anchor desk, where he delivered a lecture and positioned me at the correspondent’s desk, where I monitored incoming questions. But prior to filming, we’d both have to endure “make-up,” which consisted of the caking on of thick orange foundation. Afterwards, we’d walk back to McNeil, looking like idiots. 

Early on in my 6th year of graduate school, Chuck told me to begin applying for academic jobs, despite the fact that I had yet to write a single dissertation chapter. Unbeknownst to him, I also had no intention of becoming an academic. So I intentionally derailed my efforts, sending letters out to unobtainable jobs: Harvard, Berkeley, etc. And I’m sorry to say this because it’s an indication of how much better the job market used to be, but, much to my horror, I actually got an offer to become a post-doctoral scholar funded by the RWJ Foundation. I had no idea how to tell Chuck that I couldn’t possibly take this immensely well-paid, prestigious, zero-service position. 

But I needn’t have worried. As always, he listened patiently, and offered sage advice: It wasn’t that he didn’t want me to leave academia, it was that he didn’t know how to advise me how to leave academia. Academia was the only world he knew. His suggestion: Take the job and use it to network in the policy world where I want to work. Everyone, he said, would answer the phone for someone calling from RWJF. And RWJF will be happy to take credit for you no matter where you become a success. Plus, where else would I find a job that would pay so much to do so little?

He was right. And after two years of the post-doc, I had indeed made multiple connections in the policy world. But by then, I had fallen in love with my research. It turns out that I quite like academia when allowed to work in the luxury that RWJF afforded. 

For the most part, academia is a profoundly unfair, unmeritocratic institution. Access to opportunity all-too-often depends on access to elites. Chuck would likely bristle at the suggestion that he belonged to such a group, but yes—he was the elite I depended on for jobs and publishing opportunities. I wouldn’t have gotten my first post-doc at RWJ without his mentorship, nor would I have received my second post-doc with Betsy Armstrong without his blessing. My work on forbidden knowledge wouldn’t be half as beautiful or erudite without his tireless writing and editing. And I’d have never gotten my book published at Chicago without him whispering kind words in Doug Mitchell’s ear. 

A few years after graduating Penn, Chuck and I began to collaborate, usually in his home at Narberth. This is when I discovered there were two Chuck Bosks: “Penn Chuck” and “Family Chuck.” Penn Chuck wasn’t the most reliable. Sometimes he would miss meetings. And his curmudgeonly behavior may have occasionally bordered on misanthropic. Family Chuck, on the other hand, delighted all with his charm, humor, and adoration of his wife, Marjorie and his daughters, Emily and Abigail. His house seemed to have an open-door policy and neighbors and friends would come and go as they pleased.

Family Chuck became my dear, devoted friend. My family loved visiting his house, where he and Marjorie regularly threw the kind of dinner parties that put everyone at ease. His family seders, organized by Marjorie, are the stuff of legend. My goy husband will forever treasure the memory of performing the plague “Boil” for the Bosk family. (For their sake, I hope the Bosk family has forgotten this!) 

Over the last two months, I’ve been reading through our correspondence. These emails at least partially explain why I’m finding it so difficult to believe he’s gone. We may have started talking 20 years ago, but our conversations never ended—we always just picked up where we left off. Where do I send the articles I know he’d enjoy? I miss his texts. I’m wondering when I’ll get my next email. I keep wanting to gossip with him about his own death. 

Several years ago, Chuck gifted me a ceramic tile, depicting a red balloon floating high above a deep blue sky. He stopped me when I thanked him. “Look at it more closely. Think about what it means.”

Chuck’s advice always tended to be cryptic. Was he telling me to stop worrying? That I’m full of hot air?

His daughter Emily, who I am happy to call my colleague and friend, helped me interpret: 

“You’re taking flight… so just keep soaring.”

Thank you, Chuck.

Joanna Kempner, Philadelphia, PA

October 30, 2020