Pratt Institute - Prattonia Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

Page 10 text:

When our eyes clear we’re standing six inches from a tree, Since this was supposed to be Brooklyn we were not surprised. On closer inspection the neighborhood was some- what older than I expected but, then again so was the girl I took to the Prom, I was just wondering what the twelve Cadillacs were doing in front of the home for old ladies. At this point I whipped out the map provided by Pratt and, like Bogart in “Sierra Madre”, we followed the map to the treasure. Around a corner and down the block we came across a doorway amongst a grouping of trees. It was either the gate- way to Wonderland or the Institute I was seeking. Since there was no tardy white rabbit in sight I opted for the latter. “That must be it” I said. Mom seemed unimpressed for some reason. We closed in and entered. Ironically, the first thing I saw of Pratt was the cannon, painted black at that time. This comforted Mom, she saw the cannon not as a decoration but protection. We continued down the path and passed a student mowing the grass and the bare patches with equal vigor. We toured the entire campus marveling at the old buildings, they gave the place a sense of history, along with a sense of age. Mom had just about forgotten about the heat and humidity, The campus seemed more like a park than anything else, a park even used by people in the neighborhood. “Let’s see,” I said checking the map. “There’s the new building, the Main building, the library...” “A woman breast-feeding her child,” adds Mom. I checked the map again. “No,” I said, “That’s the library park.” “Don’t tell me, you think your generation invented hygiene classes?” “That’s a woman breast-feeding a child, whatever happened to Pablum?” Well, I didn’t see her but being hungry myself I sympathized with the kid. Mom saw it differently. Suddenly I wasn’t her mature son going off to college but her little boy who must be protected, Since she was visibly upset I thought it best to return home. Lest you think that was it, you are mistaken, Punchenello face. We returned the very next day, bypassing the subway trip of the day before and opting for the Downtown Dynamite D which aside from being orange, was also air-conditioned. We passed through the gateway of heaven, passed the neatly mowed soil, and passed the spot where Miss Dairyqueen was refreshing her offspring. We entered the Main building. thus proving it was not a cardboard facade. We walked up a few flights and miracle of mira- cles there was a real live Pratt student. Hesitantly we approached, not sure how to address him, we tried English, “Do you go to school here?” says Mom, spokes- person for the group. “Yea, I’m a junior” he said. “My son is just starting here and Id like to know more about the place.” “Well.” he said, “Pratt is a vocational institution which first opened its gate in 1887. Millionaire philanthropist Charles Pratt, our illustrious founder...” “Can it, it’s too warm for snow,” Mom cut in, in no mood for Gilbert and Sullivan. “O.K.,” said our guide. “If your son is serious about what he wants to do you won’t find a better school. The teachers are professional and even though the place is somewhat run down you won't get a better education.” Well, that made Mom feel better and we went home with some peace of mind, and our anonymous Pratt booster? Last I heard he went to study in Europe.

Page 9 text:

trains, from the IRT to the BMT RR. On the way to the RR a man (and J only say man because it would be impolite to say thing), dressed in a derby, a layer of grime and a fifty year old Bloomingdale’s Special invited my mother to buy him lunch. She suggested an amusing way for him to wear his derby and we moved on. By now the humidity practically made the air visi- ble and as we approached the RR platform things got a little uncomfortable. My first impression was that of a nasal cavity. The station was at least thirty feet long and must have been lit by a flashlight suspended by a rope. It must have been designed by the man who engineered the escape from Stalag 17. Once in awhile I thought I heard the flutter of bats overhead but I preferred not to dwell on it. Mom just shook her head, After awhile we heard a rumble, a roar, the MES OF AMERTCA, i Rm Sea 2 ground was shaking, the platform was swaying and the bats were going bananas. Through the dark, almost opaque atmosphere twin headlights pierced the darkness, as the train rolls in (TA-DA). Pulling ourselves together hesita ntly we boarded the train. The inside appears to have not been acquainted with anything hygienic since W.W.I. ‘The Kaiser has pig’s feet.’ says the graffiti ahead of me. A man dressed in sleigh bells and a wet suit passed in front of us. Mom shook her head. The cooling system was interesting though insuffi- cient. Naked propeller blades whirled around the ceiling daring anyone with an Afro to come within twenty feet. As I was pondering the possibilities my mother suggested we move down, seems the gentleman seated to her right wanted to lie down and since he was going to do it regardless of our presence we changed seats. Mom just shook her head again. Finally we came to our stop. One more change, to the GG, and then nirvana, or at least fresh air anyway. The GG intrigued me already, even though I hadn't seen it yet. It is mind-boggling that so much time, money and energy would be spent to inconve- nience so many people. We waited so long that I was beginning to think it was all an elaborate practical joke. I imagined I saw Alan Funt in the Hershey machine, and Mom was getting ready to shake her head. After another wait we heard a cough and a wheeze up the track. I was astonished, it was the first time I ever saw a geriatric train. If it had been a horse, it would have been shot. Once again we entered a contemporary of the Sopwith Camel. ‘The Kaiser has bad breath’ says the antique graffiti. C'mon, says ma, we have people coming over for Thanksgiving. We arrive at Clinton-Washington two and a half hours later and 25 degrees warmer than when we started. Due to the darkness of the tunnels we slowly emerge from the station into the daylight and stop. -STREET |

Page 11 text:

her reunion t many a mo