I was out for a walk alone on Friday evening when my college disappeared.. I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I had to squint. At first, I could only make out the photo, but I recognized the building depicted immediately, an impressive pediment lifted heavenward by four massive columns. Hamilton Hall, on Broad and Pine Street Philadelphia, the main building of The University of the Arts, where I spent four years as an art student in the late eighties. I narrowed my eyes further to read the headline.
That feeling will pass. You’ll reassure yourself that your degree still counts. Surely, you’re grandfathered in. Your current employer won’t hold it against you. You haven’t, after all, deceived anyone.Shouldn’t a university’s foundations be solid, its roots deep, its stewards responsible enough to ensure not only quality education but continuity?. Just how did those in charge manage to screw things up so badly? Hamilton Hall has columns, for goodness sake.
I felt surrounded by wit and brilliance and weirdness and this emboldened me and pushed me to take risks. I found some of the best friends I have in this world at UArts. I met Tucker. Joe. Dari. Melissa, who would later introduce me to the woman I’d marry and have a child with. It’s a place of so many beginnings for me.
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