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Page 14 text:
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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.
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Page 15 text:
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Sophomore and Junior year went by unnoticed. One minute I was eighteen and fresh off the farm, and the next moment I was a Senior with a definite outlook developed somehow after a multitude of classes and experiences. How it came about was too gradual to notice. But the realization that I shall have to start my career on what I have learned here can be very unnerving. Did Ilearn enough from Pratt to do so? Only time will tell. I still don't believe I comprehend Mrs. Buckley's Light and Color course. Tones and hues? What are they? I'll probably rely on my own judgement, the same way | did when doing her homework. And Art History? I don't remember a thing. What I did learn was the bullshit Pratt puts us through. How many teachers are really capable, and not just in need of the prestige or money that Pratt could supply? Most students were intelligent enough to realize this, and learned what they, themselves, felt to be educational. Homework assignments could be changed to accommodate the student's own desires. Teachers could be put off for deadlines, and failures passed if one only knew how to get around the professor. Lesson of Life 3: make as many influential friends as pos- sible. There is alwaysa way out if one knows how. Oh, how many times I have convinced my teach- ers that my work was a stroke of genius, and not something thrown together minutes before class? Or that a project completed for one course did not fit another's requirements just as well? Of course there were many assign- ments that really motivated me, and | could actually enjoy staying up all night to complete them. There is nothing new in my methods to pass courses; they have been a set of rules all students employ. But for the most part, all projects worthy of completion were done so. As for the others, we convince ourselves they never should have been assigned in the first place. During those years of monumental deci- sions whether or not to do assignments, we enjoyed ourselves as often as possible. By this time the student had chosen friends with the same personality as his own. Each group had its own rules for studying, entertaining, and a way to live. My own group took on the quality of Fitzgerald's Jazz Age, with its own style of parties that could be enjoyed only by the ingénue. We have hopefully all become more mature now, and any similar party offered would seem child ish with our lives today. It was the excitement of some- thing new and wicked that appealed to our senses then. We know better now, but four years ago, aninvitation to a Soiled Doves’ Society party meant top status. The dress would be outrageous, if not gauche. The atmosphere wild, if not seedy. And personalities Upper East Side, if not tacky. But how we danced. And drank. Andcaroused. Clothes designed for evening would be raved over. Kisses were the norm. Mutual love filled the room like ciga- rettesmoke. Ourcommon bond was the desire to be outrageousand envied. And we managed it alright, at least among ourselves. New York is a very hard place to tolerate. Most everyone is after money and glamour. The result is disastrous. You can never be sure who your friends are. People are willing to sell out their pals to better themselves; it is a rare quality to see someone remain faithful throughout years of friendship. There are only a few people I enjoy seeing constantly without the fear that they have changed. A few close friends, of course. But mostly those people one never really knows too well. Barbra, for instance. Barbra is the checkout girl at the A P. She is never without a smile and ‘How are you?’ Her laugh is bright and frequent, and after countless trips to the WEO Wonderland, I have developed a quiet rapport with her. A good friend? No. But this kind of person is always reliable for a good-natured salutation and kind word, and therefore, desirable. These people make the most routine tasks enjoyable. Another person of such status is Mr. Hadley, who had the most unfortunate task of running a dormitory, com- plete with extra hours of work and constantly complaining tenants. Yet, throughout his employment, Mr. Hadley remained friendly and helped the best he could. Many times he would personally fix a broken door or leaky faucet. Danny, the maintenance man, was the same way. He could always be counted upon for extra lightbulbs and risqué remarks about the girls next door. You could ask him to fix something, and he would arrive promptly to do it. His manner, if not crass at times, was realistic enough to be trusted. His retelling of the day's troubles, mostly with four- letter words, was thoroughly enjoyable. He was a real person, no plastic facade like so many of Manhattan's inhabitants. What the students did not learn inside the classrooms, they learned out- side. Fine Art pupils went museum hopping. Theater Design students went to Broadway shows. Those in Advertising went to the Society of Illustrators. Pratt eased the way for each individual to realize what they wanted to be- come, and Manhattan provided the means to do so. What one learned was determined by how much and what he did. But in their own small way, the everyday experiences in the Pratt community could be- come lasting memories. | always enjoyed watch- ing the Food Department brazing out the cold air to sculpt huge blocks of ice into animals, boats, and chess pieces, only to have them melt in the sun's unrelenting rays. Lunchtime in the PI. Shop took on its own comical quality. As if invisible walls were built, each section of the large room had its special brand of patrons. The engineers would sit in their usual spot, ever-present briefcases at their sides. The Chinese remained by one exit, and the Blacks would occupy those tables closest to the kitchen with its terrible food. Previous Art and Design High School students sat by the windows, and the queens occupied the tables closest to the wall and other exit, for advantageous viewing of passing bodies. During classes, this establish- ment hardly stirred, but between the hours of 12 and 2, frantic activity took place. People would table hop in the hopes of finding out assignments of classes they had skipped. Plans would be made for the upcoming weekend, and gossip became standard conversation. The PI. Shop was transformed into a circus, complete with pin ball machines and rock music blaring to the beat of flying bodies. Lunchtime was not the time to eat. Pratt was never a place for school spirit. The sports teams were hardly known about, and their competitions never attended, except, perhaps, by the team itself. The closest the students came to becoming a complete group was at the various school dances. Many really enjoyed the occasion, some attended for the free beer offered. Some saw it as a cheap evening without the subway ride into Manhattan and back, and others went to laugh at the other three groups. Whatever the reasons, everyone was there. Between the music, no matter how bad, the pot and the beer, people would have a good time. They would forget their projects dissected about their room, and would devote the evening to the most important thing, them- selves. Looking back now, I sense that my classmates are leaving Pratt more or less the way they entered. What became our NewWay of Life was but a means to sow our oats. It helped us grow mentally, although it was also the down- fall of many inhabitants. Time became the differentiator. Most of those happy party-goers have calmed down to the point of reality. It is the less fortunate ones that are still living that style of life we once found desirable, like old women wearing knee socks. The more fortunate have retracted their basic personalities. The cheerful have remained that way. The serious still are. What has resulted from those carefree years is a better understanding of what we were, what we've learned, and how to use that knowledge to obtain the style of life we wish to hold on to and keep forever.
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