Pratt Institute - Prattonia Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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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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