Pratt Institute - Prattonia Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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The smell of smoke filled the air that afternoon, as the Main Building windows glowed from the fire within It was approximately two o'clock when the second alarm fire was called into the station house on Carlton Avenue. The men of Engine 210 and Rescue Squad 2 were the first team on the scene. The building had been evacuated earlier by Andy Phelan and Bob Travers, as a heavy fire continued to rage in the class- rooms of the sixth floor. During the five hours it took to fight the blaze, a total of seven engines, three ladders, one rescue vehicle and a squad car were on campus to assist in the struggle. Two firemen sus- tained injuries while fighting the blaze. The cause is still unknown, although arson is suspected Damage to the building was considered medium, however, the tremendous amount of water used to extinguish the blaze caused irreparable damage to student's projects throughout the building. When time came to clean up the debris several people volunteered to help. Physical Plant personnel worked all day Sunday and came in at five am. Monday morning. The Chairman of the Board of Trustees was there sweeping the water off the floors, along with President Pratt, Don Mathis, and Albro Newton making ready for Mon- day's classes. All of which only goes to prove, it will take something more disastrous than a fire to stop the hands of the clock on Main Building

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Everything they say about Philadelphia is true. The sidewalks are rolled up at 10 o'clock. The Schuylkill River is so slow that a man once swimming across gave up halfway and decided to walk. The typical businessman owns twelve ties —one for each month. And contrary to popular belief, God did not create the entire world. He subcontracted Philadelphia. This is my hometown, the City of Brotherly Shove. But it is my home, my original home. And no matter how long I've been away, any mention of the name perks up my ears, and | think back to my childhood and the beginning of it all.... It was at the age of twelve that ‘going to town meant travelling the rickety train from suburban Bryn Mawr for an uneventful twenty minute ride into the city, passing indistinguishable shingle rooftops and countless cars along the way. The sun always seemed to shine these days, but the intensity of light somehow managed to make the passengers appear more haggard than cheerful. The older women sat, with dainty white gloves and demurely crossed legs, talking about the show they would see, the storewide sale at Lit Brothers, and how they would eat again at Schrafft's, because the waitress had been so nice the last time, bringing them extra rolls and butter. Their conversations never changed. The only difference year after year was that their face powder became progressively shades lighter, and their once shiny black pumps had become dull, with worn soles and tarnished buckles. Sitting on the worn leather seats, and peering out of the undecorative windows, the sunlight became a film of transparent whiteness, muting the natural and artificial colors of the world. The black tar streets became a dull grey and the Royal Blue and Emerald Green cars developed a tone of Art Nouveau paleness. Through this visionless fog I would gaily think of the oncoming adventures the dense glass and steel forest of downtown Philadelphia promised to lay ahead for me, confident in the fact that some- thing would be going on. During the remaining minutes of the ride, the train would travel along the river bed, across which stood the boathouses. These clapboarded structures stood majestically against the water; each house painted a dif- ferent time-faded color, with matching docks protruding into the slow- moving current like empty fishnets, forever waiting for something to become caught and give a purpose to life. During these years, I never saw one person on the docks, in the windows, or even rocking on the porches. The buildings appeared to have been abandoned, through death or that unwillingness to care, and the small rowboats left bubbling on the water were a reminder that at one time there was a reason. For all the mystery those ghost-like houses represented to me, it lasted only a few minutes as the creaking train would pull into the womb of the station's interior like a tot returning home at the precise time for meals. Through the stale-smelling darkness I could see the oncoming events of the day: watching a currently popular movie at one of the ornate urban theatres, complete with popcorn and candy bars, shopping in the depart- ment stores, a must being Sam Goodies, and eating plenty of 10¢ pretzels with mustard. My mechanized jungle could always be counted upon to provide various activities for each visit. Life was satisfying then for a twelve year old boy. No longer did the historic monuments located only blocks away with- hold my interest. Ever constant class trips had assured me of their dullness and inactivity. The great men and events of our history had long since been deceased. Life was dead inside Independence Hall. Activity and emotions plagued the streets, through people, and stores, and trolley cars. My life was to exist in the present, not the past. | vowed to surround myself with what I thought to be exciting on those Saturday afternoons. It took but a few short years for the sparkling bubbles of a child's immature mind to no longer reflect the laughter and smiles of his youth. In their place stood the reality of life; the bottle of bubble-producing solution and blower were still there, but the bubbles now had to be blown by oneself. Except the incentive no longer came from those three major streets of downtown Philadelphia, whose exciting atmosphere became routine, and therefore, depressing. Every floor of John Wanamaker’s had been memorized, and not expected to change. The Horn Hardart Automats were being torn down oneby one. And the cost of records at Sam Goodies managed to stay somewhat higher than the allowance would allow. At the age of eighteen, I found the chance to alleviate my disgust by going to college at Pratt. Although New York seemed none too pleasant with constant stories of crime and ruined lives, there remained something exciting about the wicked city which appealed to my sense of drama. It couldn't be all that bad, or else why would my hometowners constantly travel there for shopping, business, and entertainment? Somewhere in my mind I knew I would go and find out, rather than sacrifice myself to the unchanging routine of Philadelphian life, and the fear of aging like those boat houses, becoming obsolete in my own time with no will to do anything about it. It is now my last year here at Pratt, and I have never been sorry for the chance Itook. Ihave lived in Bedford-Stuyvesant, and survived. [have bitten the Big Apple for every experience available to me, and loved every minute of it. Ihave gone to school and learned how to bullshit my way through life, like everyone else. And | shall soon graduate, content with what I have learned, but never forgetting any experiences those four years have given me. The first time I saw Brooklyn, I thought I would cry. Huh? What? What is it? Those dilapidated structures called apartments and stores could never be found where I grew up. And the dormitory, complete with roaches, non- existent furniture, and other confused roommates. Actually, the Pratt dorm should be bronzed as a monument to Self-Preservation. After living there, one knows that things couldn't get worse. But the idea of living in an apart- ment with no parents made up for all its misgivings. Life was never boring, with nightly parties, visiting friends all hours of the day, and the prospect of new frowned-upon habits, including grass smoking and sex. Freshman yearis the time for hang-ups to be realized and taken care of. Sex headed the list. Normal, unknowing freshmen would learn in time, and enjoy the process. Boys would find out for themselves, girls would be taken care of by their floor advisors. These ‘‘advisors” had it made. Their job was to help the girls with any “‘problems’’ they might have, any time of the day, but preferably at night when everything seemed more peaceful. I don't think I met one advisor who ever handed an assignment in on time. Gradually allinnocent freshmen lost theirinnocence. Artists were supposed to be sensitive, and how else could they be without first-hand information on Life and Love? This became my first Lesson on Bullshitting: any excuse is okay for an enjoyable time. Oh, but how these soon-to-be non-virtuous people made fools of them- selves. Who could forget the hanging tongues of the boys in Life Study class, with wide eyes and catty remarks about the model's body? The girls managed a more uninterested look, ladies they thought they were. The only problem was that their drawings were hardly ever accurate, for they couldn't bring themselves to look upon the human body. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Strictly The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie!’ Gradually, all learned The Way of Life, and nightly Romeos would be seen strolling the halls to their waiting Juliets. Arrangements would be made for the not-so-legal transfer of roommates. Ties wrapped around doorknobs had a special meaning, and tampax appeared in the silverware drawers. Sex was here to stay. What student couldn't be happier? Smoking grass and popping pills ran a close second to sex. Everyone was ‘doin’ it, doin’ it, doin’ it!’ and “Boy, did I get stoned last night!” was heard throughout the day. Nightly parties were held and the acrid smell invaded the halls. Qualludes were the pill my freshman year, and their relax- ation effect brought everyone's desires out into the open. Many orgies were held, if one only knew where, and the variety of people was astonish- ing. The ‘‘guests’’ would head for the dining room table, where there was alwaysone bow filled to the brim with these Rousing Rorers, and then they would proceed about the apartment, engaging in joint smoking, or not so-discreet liaisons. I remember my first party, when I was careful to be only a viewer and nota participater I thanked God I had learned in those drawing classes to withhold any elements of surprise or shock that could prove to be embarrassing, for in walked a rather frumpy person from my Advertising class who proceeded to have an affair with our beautiful hostess and some of her friends. This became another Lesson of Life: expect the unexpected. Especially in New York, where there is a wider range of per sonalities. Anyone could be into any trip. The cheerleader did not neces sarily go out with the football hero. More than likely she would be dating an ogre with money, or a hippie who was great in bed.