Remembering Paul and Barbara Sigmund
By Pam Hersh, Special Writer
While sitting in the Princeton University Chapel on Friday, May 2, I recalled sitting in the same chapel seat (I know the acoustics) 24 years earlier.
Looking around at the hundreds of people in the sanctuary, I noted many of the faces also were the same, albeit with a few more wrinkles and more gray hairs.
In 1990, the reason for my chapel presence was the death of Princeton Borough Mayor Barbara Sigmund, whom I referred to as a close friend.
In 2014, the reason for my chapel presence was the death of her husband, retired Princeton University politics professor Paul Sigmund, whom I referred to as a favorite teacher. And I would bet that the hundreds of individuals sitting behind, in front of and beside me would have referred to Barbara and Paul in the exact same way.
The fact is I was one of thousands of Barbara’s close friends. She made everyone in her presence seem special and close. When she drawled that New Orleans “Darlin,’” you felt as though you were the only one worthy of that term of endearment.
When engaged in one of her favorite activities — mingling with people, the more the merrier — she exhibited that Bill Clinton skill of being able to focus only on you, making you feel as though you were the only person in the room.
When she knew she had only a few weeks to live, she still met with people to discuss pressing town issues. In these meetings, Barbara never failed to ask about the health and well being of the other person’s children, spouse or neighbors.
So, as far as I was concerned, she was a close friend even though I never did BFF stuff with her such as go shoe shopping, get a pedicure or share secrets over a mint julep.
My label for Paul was more farfetched. I never was a student at Princeton University, never had time to audit one of his classes. I only heard the renowned professor Sigmund speak at two public lectures during the course of nearly 40 years.
However, I was among the thousands of people Paul Sigmund taught in all types of settings, such as the Woodrow Wilson School Plaza, neighborhood gatherings, Princeton Community Democratic Organization meetings and the streets of Princeton.
For Paul, teaching was a potent anti-aging serum. At informal parties of friends and colleagues in recent years, I observed how Paul would shake off his weary demeanor, stand taller, regain the twinkle in his eyes as soon as he was engaged in an animated discussion about Princeton politics or Chilean politics or conditions in Haiti or philosophy or religion or the Jersey Shore.
Never bombastic, never supercilious, always kind, his conversations revealed his love of conveying information to others — and equally important to him — receiving information from others.
The scholar Paul and the politician/poet Barbara had very different styles, but they shared core principles that guided their lives. They both exuded sheer joy for what they were doing and a passionate commitment to helping others proactively, rather than reactively. They both led spirited defenses of the under-served citizenry in society.
Several people at Paul’s memorial service commented to me that Paul’s death made Barbara’s death more final. How fitting that he died on what was Barbara’s legacy day — Communiversity. The phrase mourners repeated to me over and over was that this “was the end of an era.”
But channeling the optimism and the never-say-never attitude that characterized both Paul and Barbara, I can see how the opposite might be true.
Barbara anointed an army of “Darlins,” and Paul inspired generations of critical thinkers.
Perhaps instead of mourning the end of an era, we should be going forward with a reinvigorated commitment to the principles so eloquently expressed by the Sigmunds.