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.

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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 |