Pratt Institute - Prattonia Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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FOR THIS | FINISHED HIGH SCHOOL Four years, has it really been four years? Well, let’s see, June ’74,°75, °76, °77, yes, just as expected, four years, How things have changed, four years ago the Dolphins were atop the N.F,L., Nixon got his four years and almost ten to twenty, Jimmy Carter could only lust after the presidency at that point, and Gerald Ford’s forehead was bruise free for the last time. I can still remember the day the acceptance letter arrived. It was somewhere between my New Year’s Hangover and the euphoria over Lincoln’s Birthday. I was working on a High School Art Project, a contour drawing of Jerusalem, thus completing my series of contour drawings of great ancient cities. My mother tapped me on the shoulder as I was finishing off the low rent district. “It’s a letter from Pratt,” she said solemnly, dying to open it. I said nothing. | put down my pen, took th e letter and calmly slit my finger with the letter opener. Plunging the wounded digit to my mouth I handed the enve- lope to my mother. “Just the first three words,” I said, “Just the first three words.” “O.K.,” she said, “Dear Applicant: We...” “No, not those three words, the three after Dear Applicant.” “We are happy...” “That’s it, that’s it!” I yelled. No one starts out a rejection letter with We are happy. “We are happy to inform you that it’s tough cookies,” that’s too cold. I grabbed the letter, re-read it twenty-five times and ran around the house. My mother ran around the house. Two hours later when my father came home we were still running. We told him and he ran around the house and he hasn’t done that since the Truman administration. The months passed blissfully by—March, April, May, blissful due to the image of paradise in Brook- lyn I held in my heart. I started introducing myself by saying Hi, I’m going to Pratt. This continued until I met someone going to Harvard. June, July, August, the leaves fell casually off my calendar as I looked forward to my first term.