Volume 17 - Issue 3

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December 7, 1984

Publish~

Peter Phleger Editor-in-Chi¢ Tina Kelley Businus Manag~ Marilynn Sager Managing Editor Tony Reese Design~ Andrea Fribush Production Manag~ C hristianna Williams Phowgraphy Editor Jim Ayer•• Associate Pub/is~ Hilary Callahan Associau Business Manag~s R ob Lindeman Lauren Rabin Associate Editors Anne Applebaum Rich Blow Joyce Banerjee Jim Lowe Art Editor Beth Callaghan Associate Designer Katie Winter Associate Photography Editor Mark Fedors Cirtl!.lation Manager Corinne Tobin ••

Staff C hris Berti• Art Ling Tamar Lehrich Tom M cNulty 'ti«W ()(,.,.,.

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Ri zopoulos • Arleen and Arthur Sager • Dick and Debbie Searst • Richard Shields • Thomas Strong • Alex and Betsy Torello • Allen and Sarah Wardwell • Daniel Yergin thas given a second time

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Cover plwto courtesy Rollin A. Rig_es Klansmen at a rally in Scotland, Connecticut.

TheNewJournal ---------------------------------

Volume 17 Number 3 December 7, 1984

Features

8

14

YALE

22

Yale's Decaying Colleges

Overcrowded arid deteriorating, tM colleges aren~ what they used to be. The consequences are a decline in tM quality of campus lift and the educational potential <if 1M college system. By Rich Blow.

The Klan Com es North

Nationwide tM Ku Kl;;; Klan has become incrtt~Singly popular. Connecticut's contingent ir larger than thaJ. in any otMr northern state. As part <if the recent conservative renairsance, Klansmen attempt to justify their controversial views politically. By Martha McBrayer.

Uniting Two New Havens

Once again the complexity of ~le University's re/aJionship to the city <if New Htwm ir reveakd as the University's role in the city's economic revitalizalum becomes a topic for debale. Alison Cardy examines the University's investmenJs in downtown New Haven, and Tina Kelley describes the development o] &renee Park, a major cooperative e.ffort.

23

Yale: A Good Neighbor?

28

Investing in Science

Music

32

It's Only Rock and Roll

Afterthought

38

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Yale's Secret Gardens The mttaphysics of Yale architecture and the meaning <if the Universily's space in ' the city. By Professor Vincent Scully.

Y~r:J . + N t..J '-/

Letters

4

NewsJoumal

6

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The New Journal/December 7, 1984 3

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4 The New j o urnaUDecembe r 7, 1984

Letters

Liberal Confusion To the Editor: In your article on rape, "Among Friends" (TNJ, Oct. 19, 1984), I was sorry to make the acquaintance of yet another new abuse our masochistic society seems to be heaping upon itself (from acid rain neurosis to nuclear neurosis) -your so-called "acquaintance rape."

The very notion of "acquaintance rape~ as you describe it in particular instances in that article effectively eradicates the achievements of the last ten years of Women's Liberation by portraying woman as a frail, mute, indecisive, helpless blob of protoplasm who, when mounted by a drunken preppy, doesn't know how to deal with the situation.

Has she no mouth to scream, no teeth to bite, no fingers to scratch, no hands to pull hair, no knees to kick?

Come now, let's get sensible about this new abuse which is plaguing up to "twenty percent" of campus under-· graduates, so-called "acquaintance .rape." The same rapport which causes the victim's confusion about whether or not she is being violated may also be causing the perpetrator's confusion about whether or not he is violating her, especially when you cite the violator as an inebriant.

Do you actually expect drunks to be courtly? Katherine Hepburn has taught many leading men that that is precisely what a well-placed slap across the face is for: to put a man back in his place.

Do you mean to tell me that a modern undergraduate woman at Yale is so desperate for peer approval- or preppy approval- that she wouldn't slap a fresh fellow in the face?

I'm sick of this Liberal confusion about boundaries. When acid rain falls on my garden or nuclear waste is dumped ofT my shoreline, I scream!

When a man ~ets fresh, girls, I suggest you do the same, and more: scream, slap him in the face, pull his hair, bite him, scratch him or kick him in the

groin. After all, he is your "acquaintance," he knows he can't just run away and disappear without being identified.

Establish your boundaries! Don't just ponder whether or not you are being violated and then surface a year later with an allegation attached to the latest label in our society's self-abuse parade.

The real problem- which our diseased consumer society refuses to face- is that we have turned even sex into a commodity to be consumed, and forgotten that it is a favor and privilege to be granted.

Sincerely, Paul Keane M. Div. '80

Sexual carelessness To the Editor: When I read Joyce Banerjee's article I find myself wanting to respond in slogans: "Sexuality- not just genitalia!"

"Protect the whole person!" "Stop 'casual' sex!" "This is a sick society- caveat emptor!" as though words would stem the tide of carelessness in our treatment of others and ourselves.

The difficulty of acquaintance rape: who is to blame? He is, of course- but he was confused, sick, demoralized. He isn't female; how could he know how she would feel? (She is female; why doesn't she look after herself?)

It must be very hard to help one another with moral behavior. Perhaps most of us find it too difficult; we may have enough to do to become ethical ourselves. Still there should be, minimally, correctives to offer when something is badly wrong. In cases of injury or theft or of the simpler varieties of violence, surely administrators would help.

Sexual violence may be the proverbial painful matter, where everyone

wants to look away. It is precisely in such instances that each of us must learn to see. There is no arena where the confusio n of passions can be more destructive than in the sexual encounter. Not only rape but even death can ensue out of a collision of wills-as this community m ay remembe r.

Committees and streamlined procedures perha ps m ay help. Some practice of confrontation m ay also have to be instituted. The man who hurt 'Sarah' and would have hurt 'Joan' needs to know that he has to stop. The aggrieved may be unable to get the point across; perhaps there is someone who can .

Granted the.structural difficulty, sexual carelessness is a problem much too pervasive and too intimate to be adequately addressed by bureaucratic means. At most the System can ratify work that has already been done- work that comes closer to home.

My thanks to J oyce, to 'Sarah' a nd to :Joan'.

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NewsJournal

A Summer at War "I learned that you had to be tough, a nd not particularly nice, to survive the H olocaust," said Reuel Schiller, SM '88. "I dealt with many people, including the producer, who had survived it, and I found myself saying, 'There is no way I would have survived if I had been in the Warsaw ghetto, because I'm just not that kind of person.'" A year ago, however, Schiller did enter the Nazi-occupied Warsaw of World War II. In his first film role Schiller portrayed aJewish partisan in The Children's War, which will be released this January.

The film's main character is Jasek Eisner, a young Jew who smuggles food and weapons into the ghetto until he is caught by the Nazis. Schiller plays Lutek, Jasek's quiet but cynical smuggler friend. "Lutek was the son of a wealthy Jewish merchant. Without the war, he would have grown up to be a good-for-nothing, a playboy," Schiller said. "He was the wrong kind of person to be fighting in the ghetto uprising.

Thd ' only r~ason he survived so long was because he was so bitter."

The crew filmed for two months in Budapest, Hungary, and then at the Birkenau concentration camp in Poland, where Jews were sent as laborers if they were not sent to neighboring Auschwitz. The Children's War was the first American production o; to be filmed at Birkenau. § As a Jew, Schiller found fUming at ~ !t Birkenau disturbing. "When I was in ~ Budapest, being Jewish had less of an ~ effect, but at Auschwitz and at Birken~ au - it was a nightmare there. I could not believe that anything had actually happened there. It was inconceivable," he said.

The Children's War was directed by Moshe Mizrahi, the well-known French-Israeli director who won the 1977 Best Foreign Language Film Oscar for Madame Rosa. Jack Eisner, the Jasek Eisener of the film, produced The Children's War, which is based on his book The Survivor. Although 20th Century Fox will probably distribute the film, Schiller doubts that such a serious production will be commercially successful.

In addition to The Children's War and high school productions, Schiller has recently appeared in the Timothy Dwight Dramat production of Woody Allen's God and Death. Despite his interest in drama, Schiller does not plan to make it a profession. "I met so many people who had just wasted their lives being actors while ftlming," he said.

"The movie, when I did it, was for fun, and I want to keep my acting that way."

Schiller learned of the film in February 1983 when casting agent Debbie Brown canvassed New York high schools seeking young actors. "The director wanted to work with actors who weren't really experienced because h e wanted to be able to mold them," Schiller said. Schiller, then a junior at St. Ann's School in Brooklyn H eights, met with Brown on a whim, but soon forgot about the movie and got a summer job working in a law firm. In late April, however, he received a call from B'rciwn, met with the director and then made a screen test. A week later he received a major role in the new film.

The Children's War details the 1943 Jewish uprising in the Warsaw ghetto.

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Reuel Schiller 6 The Ne w J o urnal/ Decembe r 7 , 1984

-Jennifer Ebisemiju

1 787 Silliman College.

An Artist's Legacy Photos of bodies, faces and landscapes hang on both sides of the unused fireplace. Light filters through open windows into the va:cant room. R oom 1787 Silliman College, Maya's Room, is the only undergraduate-run, permanent gallery space at Yale. Although hidden far above the well-traveled paths of the University, the gallery and its many offerings are gradually attracting students.

Maya's Room opened in spring 1982 with a retrospective of multi-media work by the late Maya Tanaka Hanway, SM '82. "Originally Maya talked with (Silliman Master William Bennett, J r.) about establishing a student-run art gallery," Fran Bennett, Master Bennett's wife, explained. "After her death in J anuary 1981, as a memorial to M aya, her parents donated the balance of her tuition to this cause." In fall 198 1, Master Bennett, together with R esident Fellows David and Meryl Blinder and a group of students, began converting R oom I 787 into an art gallery. "'We've had an eclectic kind of exposure up until this point," Mrs. Bennett said. "It's been very exciting." Exhibits have included a landmark show commemorating the Solidarity movement, incorporating posters and but-

tons designed by political prisoners.

Maya's Room also d isplayed children's drawings and paintings don e by Polish surrealists in response to the implementation o f martial law. In spring 1983, freelance illustrator David Suter, whose work appears in The New York Times, displayed his political drawings at the gallery.

Despite the ambition and dedication invested in the undertaking, the gallery has been virtually u n recognized by most Yale students. "Part of what we wanted was to create a gallery that would not only be a link between students and the Yale community, but also one for New Haven and New York artists," commented Sarah Whiting, SM '86, originally one of the guiding forces of the gallery. "But there's really been no following outside Silliman.

There's just so much happening on campus that if you didn't have big names, people wouldn't come. It was demoralizing." Furthermore, Whiting found artists, architects and sculptors outside of New Haven were frequently so occupied with their work they d idn't have time to exhibit.

This year , however, u nder the d irection of T im Peterson , S M '86, a n d Katie Winter, SM '87, Maya's R oom h;,s changed its focus: they plan to conceutrate solely on undergraduate art.

"It\ the only chance for undergrads to get response from their peers," Winter

said. "In class you just don't get a feeling of w h at it's going to be like as an artist in the real world." Mervl Blinder added, "Th ere's lots of tale~t hidden away at Yale. I th ink th is year we may have found something."

Following an extensive and extremely effective publicity campaign, the first undergraduate phowgraphy exhibit opened on November 9, entitled "The Undergraduate Lens." "I was unsure of what to expect after last year's lack of interest," Winter explained. "But people seemed really excited by the work at the opening."

Most of the seven photographers in the show had never before exhibited their work. Hanna \IVeg, MC '87, one exhibitor, commented, "Katie was willing to choose a number of different kinds of photography and a number of different styles. Students appreciated the fact it was purely an undergraduate show, and it was the best turnout Maya's Room has had .., Future plans include exhibits of architectural models and drawings and grap hic design show. "It's incredible," W hiting said. "Artists may bring all the work th ey have to the gallery, and each show somehow seems to come togNher in a n ew and different way. There's something magical about that."

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Yale's Decaying Colleges Rich Blow "In many places the colleges look like high class slums," said Be rkeley Master Robin Winks . Yale President A .

Bartlett Giamatti felt differently, saying that the colleges are "splendid residences" which "provide an opportunity for combining living and learning unparalleled in this country." The disparity between Winks' and Giamatti's views shows that, after 51 years of residential colleges, Yale students and faculty still have trouble assessing the status of the Yale colleges.

T oday the gulf between the college system in theory and the realities of college life is increasingly apparent to students and faculty alike. After half a century the colleges are crowded far beyond their original capacity, desperate for new space and facilities, and weakened by the onslaught of old age.

The consequence is a noticeable drop in both the quality of on-campus living and the edu cational potential of the college system .

8 The New Journal/December 7, 1984

"When I lived on campus it seemed to me that everything was just falling apart," explained Sarah Lyall, DC '85, who moved to a house on Dwight Street after her sophomore year. "The bathrooms were always d isgusting and there was never any quiet because there were so many people around. In my room you could hear everything that went on in the suite through the fire door- so we all knew about it when one of the guys there had a new girlfriend."

Lyall is one of about 500 students annually who opt to leave the colleges and live elsewhere. When the first seven residential colleges were completed in 1933 , each housed 150-200 students; now, even with the addition of Berkeley, Timothy Dwight, and Silliman later in the 30's, and Morse and Stiles in 1962, each college holds about 100 more students than originally planned. The fi rst seven colleges held about 1240 students; by 1983 that

number had risen to 1780. Rooms meant to be singles are now doubles, doubles are now triples, and so on. For many studen ts, off-campus or annex housing is the best way to escape such crowded conditions.

From her apartment on Edgewood Avenue, Marie Wilkinson, PC '86, spoke about why she left campus.

"Studying in college rooms is next to impossible because you can never shut out the noise of the people around you," Wilkinson said. "You can always hear their stereos, their telephones, even their bathrooms."

Junior Brad Berenson lives in McClellan Hall on the Old Campus with students from Jonathan Edwards, Branford and Calhoun. Berenson has no regrets about leaving J E: "If I were still living in the college I would be squeezed into a run-down three room triple. Now I live in a renovated fourperson suite with three bedrooms, a large living room and a private

"What the colleges need is a lot more money and a lot fewer bodies." bath room. Why should I miss living in J E?" But Berenson's roommate Matt Holmes said he regretted having to choose between the advantages of living in a college and those of living in McClellan. "I do miss the college," H olmes said. "There's no atmosphere here, no sense of community. We don't really feel like we're part of the college system."

College masters find the problem of overcrowding equally frustrating. As Calhoun Master Ramsay MacMullen

l

com mented , "I f I had some god-like power, the first thing I would do is cut enrollment by a lot. I've often said that what the colleges need is a lot more money and a lot fewer bodies."

President Giamatti has slightly trimmed Yale's enrollment, limiting the size of the freshman class to 1250 students when in past years it approached 1400. But cutting enrollment is an expensive proposition, both financially and otherwise. As jonathan Edwards Master Frederic Holmes pointed out, "I f you cut enrollment,

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then fewer people are going to get a Yale education, and is that worth it?"

Donald Kagan, former T imothy Dwight master and chairman of the Committee on the Future of th e Residential Colleges, argued that the only feasible way to reduce crowdin g was to build a 13th college. "Right now there are definitely more students who want to live in the colleges than they can hold- but there are also too man y students who ought to be at Yale to reduce enrollment. That's why the Committee saw the addition of a new

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"Fifty minutes of education weren't worth the misery of getting out of bed."

Berkeley students trying to study.

10 The New .Journal/December 7, 1984

Holiday Hours Tuesday-Saturday

9 a.m.路& p.m.

Sunday college as the only option."

But Yale will probably not soon, if ever build a 13th college; the estimated cost of such a project is between S40-S50 million , and the administration has no plans to raise so much money for a n unsettled issue.

In the meantime overcrowding also curtails the produ ctive potential of Yale's student organizations, most of which look to the colleges for badlynef"ded office and meeting space.

Publications, college dramats, even college councils are aU forced to com pete for the limited public space within the colleges.

Leo Charney, '86, president of the Branfo rd Dramat , explained how his group views the problem: "We have no space for auditions or rehearsals, so we have to make do with unused space in the Branford basement. That's hardly ideal , but it could still be worse- a lot of shows have to rehearse in places like Linsly-Chittenden Hall because there's no room for them elsewhere."

M ost dramats turn to the college dining haJls to put on their plays, although the dining haJls are already more than comfortably full. Theoretically places for intellectuaJ thought and conversation outside the classroom , at peak hours the dining halls are transformed into mob scenes, noisy, cramped and uncomfortable.

Robin Winks commented, "The Berkeley dining haJl was built for 280 orderly people, sitting down in coats and ties and waiting to be served.

Now, with freshmen. fellows , 路.-ansfers and off-campus students comin~ in , we can expect 550-600 people crammed in there on any given night. " Likewise, coiJege facilities for individuaJ academic work cannot meet the demands of YaJe undergraduates.

Students who need the colleges for music rooms, language labs, athletic facilities and th~ like often find these facilities broken, run-down or entirely absent. The situation can impede a student's work and make a master's life miserable Pierson Master H arold Morowitz has tried to solve the problem by

spending hours o f physicaJ labor rebuilding Pierson facilities. With stu dent help he has carried boxes, cleared rooms and painted waJls whenever it seemed the only way things would be improved. As a result Pierson has some of the nicest facilities at YaJe, including an exercise room, an espresso lounge and an exten sively equipped computer room. Still, M orowitz con ceded every hour he spent on such endeavors was a n hour he could have devoted to overseein g the inteiJectual life of the college. "You don't want a master who's con signed to plumbing," Morowitz said. "That's not supposed to be part of the job, but it often turns out to be the biggest p a rt."

Some students take it upon themselves to redress college shortcomin gs.

When Adam Stock, SY '85, andjulien Mininberg, SY '86, d ecided that the ir college needed a printing press, they turned to Saybrook alumni for help.

"We were one of the only colleges at YaJe not to have a press a nd we figured we'd have better luck asking the aJums for money than asking the adrninstration," Mininberg said. "In the end it worked out great, but I'm not sure th at it's the students who should have to tackle this kind of problem."

Not only overcrowding and shortages of facilities limit the productivity of the college system; after five decades of Connecticut winters, the buildings themselves are deteriorating, plagued by leaky roofs, broken plumbing and inadequate heat. In 1984 Yale will spend some S7 million on routine maintenance aJone, yet even this huge sum w ill not arrest the threatening effects of age.

"YaJe can never rebuild these colleges," said Davenport Maste r Henry Turner. "To have let them faJI into such a state of disrepa ir is tragic." Like most masters Turner deaJs extensively with maintenance problem s, and he feels this lessens his contribution s to the educational experience of students in his c~!l<!~e. "Wht>n I came here in 1981 I assumed I was here to enrich the intellectuaJ life of D avenport students.

But to my great aJarm I discovered that

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The New Journal/December 7, 1984 II

The New journal thanks T om Brooks J ennifer Ebisemiju Matt Ernst Lauren Esserman Hilary Fox Adina Levin Kitty Luce Emily Offner Elissa Pagnani Christine R yan Ba rrie Seidenberg Margie Smith Strong Cohe!l Graphic Design Marc Turkel Mirem Villamil Lelia Wardwell Dan Waterman J anet Wu

Constr_uction

outside

Silliman

n o one was taking care of the college."

The first challenge Turner faced as a new master was a longtime problem with leaking gutters built into one wing of the college. Every rainfall saturated the walls of student rooms, causing them to smell and grow mold. It took T urner three-and-a-half years to cut through red tape and get the gutters fixed. The frustrated master said, "I've been fighting these problems since I became master and now J!m getting tired of it. I teach, I write books, I try to make the life of the college more interesting, but this is just a drag."

Physical plant problems hit students hardest in winter when low Connec12 The New Journal/December 7, 1984

College. ticut temperatures force students indoors. As almost any student will attest, most dorm rooms are either boiling hot or cold. One Branford junior stills remembers his struggles for warmth in his room last winter. "In the mornings from about five to six the heat would just come pouring on; inevitably I'd wake up in a sweat. But there was so little insulation in m y room that by the time I had to get up I could see my breath in the air. I don't know how many classes I skipped because 50 minutes of education weren't worth the misery of getting out of bed."

Writing tutor Fred Strebeigh had a

'Wah similar experience in Branford. Strebeigh, who teaches a class in a cold, wet seminar room in the college, admitted how difficult teaching can be under such conditions . "There've been times I've been trying to teach and I see students bundled up in hats and gloves, so cold they can't even concentrate. It makes me feel like I might as well just end the class early," Strebeigh said.

The. cause of the heat problem is the inadequacy of Yale's antiquated heating systems. Except for Morse and Stiles all the colleges are warmed by steam pumped into 50-year-old radiators. "It is a noisy, erratic and wasteful system," explained Ken Borst, Director of Construction Management. "Back when heat was cheap they pumped so much steam into the rooms that people would control the temperature just by opening their windows.

We can't afford to do that anymore, but there's no way to fix these systems short of replacif!g them." That job, Borst estimated, would cost over $500,000 per college, and Yale has no plans to allocate funds for something considered a low priority project. In the meantime students will keep comp laining to Physical Plant, which receives up to 250 complaints about heating problems a week.

Clearly what the colleges need to restore their full residential attractiveness and educational capabilities is money, a lot of money . Whether they will get those funds depends in large part upon Terry Holcombe, VicePresident for Development and Alumni Affairs. Holcombe is working to raise some S80 million for Yale this year. Only about six percent of that money will go to the colleges, however, and only about half of that sum will be spent on maintenance. Restoration, Holcombe admitted , is a difficult project. "After fifty years there's a lot that's beyond repair, and after decades of deferred maintenance, boom! The bill comes due. But we're just shooting for preservation now. Restoration-

"Yale can n ever rebuild these colleges."

bringing the colleges back to what they used to be- is somethin g that we could never afford."

Holcombe added most alumni would rather contribute to a new gym than to new heat or plumbing systems.

"Just try raising money to put a new roof on the Pierson dining hall. What are we going to tell them , that we'll put their name on the roof of Pierson College?"

Many masters try to pick up where Yale fund raising leaves off, starting small financial campaigns of their own .

But as with maintenance issues, most masters don't think fund raising is something they should be forced to do.

"I'm uncomfortable with that role," said Frederic Holmes, "but a lot of times there just is no other option. Getting money from Yale is like getting blood out of a turnip."

Yet money alone will not cure the ills plaguing the colleges. First Yale must recognize that the physical well-being of the colleges is a prerequisite for Yale students' optimum education. The problems of age and overcrowding have diminished the educational opportunities the colleges were designed to foster, and until those problems are solved the college system will never be able to reach its full educational potential.

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The New JoumaUDecembcr 7, 1984 13

The Klan Comes North Martha McBrayer

I came. back to the Old Campus from the library at 10:30 that night. That's when I saw the sign on my door. They'd taken that phony blood you get from drama productions and crossed out my name with it. And there were three big ktters-KKK -wn'tten in that phony blood on my door.

The guys who did it thought it was all a big joke. I walked into my btdroom and looked at the wreckage and I just started to cry and cry and cry. I took this as a really personal attack against me. I mean, I was jn'endly with a coupk of them.

The weird thing is I don't think they even lcnew what the â&#x20AC;˘KKKâ&#x20AC;˘ means. The guy whose itka it was is half-Mexican and a Catholic.

How could he not undn-stand?

-A Yale freshman describing how her room was vandalized on October 29.

Ironically the Ku Klux Klan had nothing di rectly to do with this incident, which the University's Executive Committee is n ow reviewing. The KKK of the 1980s shuns association with such overt acts of racism. Today's Klan is a polished, efficient and g r owing organization, working to broaden its appeal among white Americans. Since 1970, Klan membership has doubled to nearly 10,000 members, flourishing even in Connecticut, a state usually considered free of the intense bigotry traditionally linked with the Klan. Today there are some 350-400 KKK members in Connecticut, more than in any other northern state. Though it is unlikely the Klan will have much direct impact at Yale, this year's vandalism shows the ramifications of an increasing KKK presence in Connecticut cannot be underestimated.

David Duke, a handsome and articulate young graduate of Louisiana Sta.te

"Nobody should be supressed. I don't care whether you're black or white or Jewish or green, everybodys entitled to their freedom."

-Karl Peterson, leader of Northeast United Ku Klux Klan University, master minded the resurgence of the KKK. During his undergraduate years at LSU Duke had paraded around campus in a Nazi uniform and was once arrested for possessing the makings of a homemade bomb. He took it upon himself in the early 1970s to revive the Klan, and his soft-sell racism soon became a media sensation. Duke successfully presented an essentially non-existent organization, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, as a legitimate non-violent political force.

Duke's right-hand man was Bill Wilkinson, a high school dropout who in 1976 formed a Klan of his own, the Invisible Empire, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, based in Louisiana. The Invisible Empire ( IE) soon outgrew the size of the original Knights and became the largest branch of the Klan in the nation .

Bill Wilkinson's Invisible Empire claims it is merely a political organization fighting for white rights, but until recently it was regarded as the most violent and dangerous Klan group. In 1979 for instance, 100 of Wilkinson's Decatur, Alabama Klan members, armed with ax handles, clubs and lead pipes, confronted about 60 black members of the Southern Christian L~:adership Conference peacefully m11rching in protest of the rape convictior of Tommy Lee Hines, a retarded black man. In the resulting riot some 30

Bill Wilkinson, founder of the Invisible Empire

shots were fired and four people were wounded. According to Randall Williams, director of a public interest group called Klanwatch, "Bill Wilkinson can stand there and make his speech on how 'we are simply a non-violent political organization' and then, as in Wrightsville, Georgia, 1980, two of his members will leave that speech, drive two miles down the road and shoot their . 12 gauge shotgun into th~ face of a nine-year-old black girl. Anybody who says he got into the Klan thinking he was getting into a political organization and intends to advance a political purpose is either incredibly naive or a liar."

Although racism is not unique to the South, the question remains how Connecticut became the Klan's northern stronghold. Wilkinson first established the Klan here in 1980 by exploiting a racially tense situation in Meriden , where disciplinary hearings were being held over the shooting of a young black man by a white policeman. The IE staged a march down Main Street in support of the officer and was attacked by members of John Brown's International Committee Against Racism (INCAR), an often violent communist organization. The subsequent sympathetic popular reaction, mostly among white blue-collar workers, gave the Klan a foothold in Connecticut.

Media attention also gave the Invisible Empire credibility, and the group has been here ever since.

John Dillon, the Invisible Empire's Great Titan in Connecticut, looked like the sterotypical Klansman; late 20s, longish hair, scruffy beard and mustache and numerous arm tatoos, including the cross of the IE. He wore a baseball cap, vest, long-sleeved shirt, Th~

Nt>"' Journal/ December 7, 1984 15

jeans and workboots. Dillon recalled the time in 1980 when he first attended an IE rally in Scotland, Connecticut, where he heard Bill Wilkinson speak.

"It wasn't a band of people ru nning around in sheets at n ight lynching people. I didn't hear any hate talk o r anything like that. What I did hear was patriotism, conservative values, preserving the rights of white people, but not at the expense of anybody else's Constitutional rights. It's equal rights for everyone, and I hadn't heard too many other groups saying that. I've been active in it ever since."

Dillon was most concerned about issues like affirmative action and racial quotas, which he labels special privileges for minorities. The Great Titan b~tterly recalled losing a job as an apprenttce carpenter during a company lay-off to a black co-worker who seldom 16 The New Journal/ December 7, 1984

showed up for work. "Some people call it reverse discrimination. I just call it discrimination."

According to Dillon , the I E is chiefl y a political group whose attitudes toward issues such as affirmative action, racial quotas and forced busing are shared by the R epublican Party and President Reagan. "We like Mr. Reagan very much," Dillon stated. "We endorsed him for President in 1980 and we endorsed him again in 1984. In 1980 he immediately disavowed our e ndorsement but in 1984 it took him two weeks and a threat of a Justice Department inquiry for him to denounce it."

Dillon believes Klan support was partially responsible for R eagan's victory. "I think in general people whose beliefs are similar to ours have helped R eagan. In 1980 most of the white people voted for R eagan and an over-

whelming majority o f the blacks voted for Carter. When I went to see R eagan speak at Fairfield I could practically close my eyes and be at a Klan rally. H e speaks out very clearly on everything we say."

Klansman Dillon resents the IE's violent reputation, saying "The Klan is a fraternal , political organization dedicated to promoting patriotism and the Constitutional rights of white people. We're not a violent organization at all. Violence doesn't solve problems it m~es them worse." ' Much of the Klan's notoriety, Dillon b elieves, is due to media bias.

"Reporters come and say 'I sn 't your group anti-Catholic?' 'No,' I'll say, 'I'm Catholic, the Grand Dragon's Catholic, probably 75 percent of the members in Connecticut are Catholic.' Then they'll go ahead and print 'The Klan, a notorious anti-Catholic, anti-Jewish, anti-black organization . . . ' In one ear and out the other. They print what they want."

Because of this, a principal function of the IE in Connecticut is to educate people about the Klan through public rallies and Klan literature. The IE occasionally distributes literature to students at schools such as Harnden High, and has also shown up in Groton to support the Trident submarine launchings.

Dillon explained, "We don't like being secretive because if you're running around being secretive you're not getting anything done. You can get a lot more done if you're out in the open .''

Dillon became most passionate when speaking about anti-Klan forces in Connecticut. "It's not so much that antiKlan groups help us, they discredit themselves. They're out there screaming 'The Klan's a bunch of racist murderers' and throwing rocks at us."

For the Klan leader, the march at Meriden proved this. "' hope I never see anything happen like that again.

Everything was fme until they got up on the hig h ground with knapsacks full of bricks, chunks of concrete, bottles, just about everything. And they just started throwing the stuff down. I've never seen so much stuff raining out of the sky at o nce. They were ripping up peoples'

"There's nothing more exciting than a room full of Klansmen drinking beer and watching themselves on TV." porches . . . cars were attacked and windows smashed. We had one Klanslady hit in the head with a chunk of concrete and she almost died. It caved in her skull. They had to remove bone splinters from her head; she's got a steel plate now. This is in the name of brotherhood and love and justice. We had several Klan members at the time who were armed, but we didn't even pull any weapons because ! NCAR was out in the crowd. But if Pd seen who was throwing the rocks I would have shot them."

Dillon predicted the IE will soon be in every community with a substantial white population in Connecticut, and ch arged, "The only thing stopping us is the Gestapo tactics of the state police. If you want to attend a Klan rally in Connecticut you'll be stopped better than a mile away from the rally site. If the rally's being held on public property they will have blocked all the roads and put out a parking ban. They'll search your car very thoroughly, under the hood, in the air cleaner, under the hubcaps.

They'll search you very thoroughly, the next best thing to a strip search . As a matter of fact, the last rally we had they had three cops searching an eightmonth-old baby. Right down in the diaper. This was done in the interest of public safety."

Chief George Caffery of the Meriden police force firmly denied Dillon's charges, explaining only certain individuals were sea.r ched at Klan rallies after court injunctions were issued. "I know of no incident in Meriden where

Dillon, Great Titan of the state's Invisible Empire.

we have manhandled a Klansman," he firmly stated.

Dillon admitted the IE is not the only branch of the Klan in Connecticut, but disavowed any connection with the rival Northeast United Ku Klux Klan (NUKKK). "They're a splinter group that broke off from us last summer," he ~aid. "They are comprised of some former members and some people we w0uld never accept as members. ney're in my opinion kind of a lunatic fringe."

Kar; Peterson , the leader of the Northeast United Ku Klux Klan , drives a Mercury Zephyr decorated with five Confederate flags and an "I Hate Draft Dodgers" bumper sticker. In his glove compartment Peterson carries a photo of himself and a man he claims is Billy Carter, both wearing Klan robes.

P eterson is in h is late twenties, a large vivacious man with long hair and a beard and blue eyes that blink furiously when he gets excited. Underneath his leather vest he carries a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum strapped to his chest. "Don't worry about that," he laughed, "it's my Constitutional right.

I've had enough repercussions from joining the Klan- rve had death threats, mostly from blacks. They don't seem to understand why I joined the Klan." Peterson laughed again. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous. But I'm just a nervous kind of person."

Despite the gun, Peterson's manner was disarmingly amiable as he spoke about why he joined the KKK. "I've never rea.lly thought about the Klan too much until they had the rally up in Meriden. They had that rally in supThe New journal/December 7. 1984 17

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10rt of a white policeman and I read .bout these communists- I'm very ·nti-communist- who were going to be here. What happened in Meriden that day was a disaster. I said , well, either I could sit back or I could do something about it. So I joined."

Peterson believes the IE came to Connecticut by popular demand. "It started right here in this town, right here in Southington, in The P opular Restaurant. People were sitting around bullshitting: 'Gee, this state really needs the Klan.' And everybody joking and drinking and 'Yeah, why don't we send a letter down to Louisiana.' And that's how it got started. Five people. The K lan came up and .it went from there."

Peterson quit the IE to . start the Northeast United K u Klux K lan because he wanted a northern Klan d isassociated from the ideals of the Klan of the South. "T here's a saying- the right-wing's its own worst enemy. A lot of people in the right-wing aren't the most intelligent people in the world, and a lot of them never belonged to any organization since the Cub Scouts. It seems like a lot of 'em get greedy. If they don't like the way things go they quit and start their own group -like I did."

Peterson's basic disagreements were with the IE's Connecticut Grand D ragon , J .W. Farrands. "Basically America's a democracy and the IE isn't.

It's more like a dictatorship. T he leader is-was-a good friend of mine, but he's a little bit of a madman. He started off being the n icest guy in the world.

Everything in that state was going good, everywhere people were talking about it, everywh ere we went people wanted to join. But once Farrands became G rand Dragon, all of a sudden anybody that was a threat to h is power was just gone. H e snuffed you out."

When Peterson quit paying membership dues, he was immedia tely thrown o ut of the IE . "That's the thing w ith them. You can be the most valuable m ember in the world but if you don't pay that $5 for two months you're out.

You could've clapped a thousand niggers into the fence and if you don't pay

those $5 for two months, you're all done ."

Because the NUKKK does not collect membership dues, Pete rson claims they are more discriminating wh en selecting their members. "Some o f the people they let in, they've got the IQs of a pea. You know they can b arely even follow an order, but they're some friend-of-a-friend. We don 't let in friends-of-friends in our group. When I joiried the IE I sent in for an application . I was ipterviewed at Burger K ing in Wallingford by a big fat kid with a Klan T -sh irt o n . H e said 'We ll, if you've got the 20 bucks you 're in.' And that's why their Klan h as h ad a lot of problems."

The NUKKK , Peterson said is "n ot anti-black or anti~Jewish . We're an ticommunist. We d on't act ively recruit members, just military-min ded people.

We're a military o rganization . We have a paramilitary camp in Vernon, Vermont, though we're not p1anning any overthrows of any coun tries. We go up there and exercise, d o a lot of calisth en ics, h ave warfare games w ith BB guns. We sneak around, h it someone and they're d ead, b lowing off some energy. It keep s everybody pretty happy."

A ccording to Peterson, veterans make good K u Klux Klan recruits because they're used to a chain of command. T he NUKKK goes to Veterans of Foreign Wars and Foreign Legion stations across Connecticut to find a lot of their members. "When you leave the military something big leaves your life.

After being told what to do for 24 h ours a day for 365 d ays a year and you're discharged, all of a sudden you have to think for yourself. A lot of people don't want to." According to the Klan leader , veterans are not the only ones attracted to NUKKK's atmosphere o f military discipline. "Everywhere the I E's been, there's a police ch ief w ho has a Klan T -Shirt. T h ey're sympathetic."

The NUKKK is not a political o rganization like the IE claims to be, though for the most part the group consists of conservative R epublicans.

NUKK K's main concern is corn-

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Dillon displays his tattoo. munism in the United States. "Did you vote on November 6? See who's on the ballot? Gus H all and Angela Davis," Peterson said. "Things like that just drive me up the wall. That's why the veterans usually tend to come toward our group, when they see something like that."

The Klansman explained the source of his strong dislike for communism: "Probably Vietnam, and maybe watching 'M *A*S*H' on TV. Korea. I never liked people joking about war.

Sitting there and it's a big joke about wounded people." Peterson himself never fought in Vietnam. "They did away with the draft when I turned 18 in 1972 , but I definitely would have gone.

M y brother got h is draft number changed, so he went from number 3 to be drafted to number 300-andsomething. My father hate him to this day."

World War II has also had a great effect on Peterson, who now says, "The Nazis are a bunch of jerks. My father fought them in World War II, and my father was German but he came to the United States. What the Nazis tried to do I don't go along with at all. They were suppressing people. Nobody

should be suppressed. I don't car e whether you're black or white or J ewish or green, everybody's entitled to their freedom ."

Despite his claims that his organization is not racist, P eterson believes that the white people are a "dying race." At the same time, his involvement in the KKK stems more from personal than social goals. "You join to get yourself written up in the history books. Once you get your n ame written in the newspapers you want to have it written every day. No matter where I go I'm associated with the IE. Every time the Klan ha!~ d rally there's somebody there and you can see it on TV. There's nothing more exciting than a room full of Klansmen drinking beer and watching themselves on TV." AJ Groth, former Invisible Empire Kleagle and a NUKKK leader, was born and raised in Connecticut. When he turned 17 he volunteered for military service and fought in Vietnam during the Tet o ffensives of 1967 and 1968. H e served as a Green Beret paratrooper sergeant and earned three Purple Hearts. "T wo of 'em I got hit by mortar shrapnel in the hands and back. The

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third , the kid who shined shoes every day shot me in the leg. H e was Viet Cong. A spy." Groth remembered racial friction among the American troops fighting in Vietnam. "Nobody got along. Everybody hated it over there. Most of the blacks over there were killed by our guys. The blacks were running away.

"I volunteered because I thought I was doing something good," Groth con· t4nued. "Then I find out the govern· ment was just trying to get oil rights out of the land . I was treated like shit when I got back. By everybody. The real liberal people, people like the John Browners."

As far as Groth is concerned, the communist invasion of the United States has already begun. "What the hell! They sent us over there and told us to kill 'em and now over here they're running for President. What kind of crap is that? We need some more guys like McCarthy in the Senate. I mean , it's supposed to be a free country."

Groth, who left the IE with Peterson, does not have fond memories of Dillon.

"Dillon was a Nazi; he's still got the swastika on his arm. Ask him how many bars he got them thrown out of for doing 'Heil Hiders.' He speaks Ger· man and got some good anti-Jew stuff.

Get him a little looped and he'd go crazy on the Nazi shit. I can't stand that."

Groth continued, "Dillon's also into black magic. He was locked up for a while. He flipped out- too much drugs or something. He tried to kill somebody or knife them or something like that.

Dillon always tried to act tough. H e'd say, 'Yeah, you should have seen me, I beat up six black guys last week.' But he never did. Dillon's got no guts."

Groth provided a different version of what happened at Meriden than Dillon did. "That coon that beamed the girl with a rock- I got him with a Louisville Slugger right across the throat. I was going to fmish him off, but a cop grabbed me and said 'One hit per nigger.' I thought that was a pretty funny thing to say. As we were leaving, we said, 'Come on out and get us,' and we pulled out ARI5s and semi-automatic rifles.

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That's the first time I pulled a gun and didn't get no flack for it.

"I've lost a couple of jobs because I've been chucked out by minorities," Groth said, with resentment, but he does not consider himself a racist, "I just hate niggers, but there are white niggers too." Groth believes the racial tensions present in American society will eventually lead to a violent showdown. "I'm sure the country will lead up to a race war. I've been prepared for years."

Groth carries several guns with him, but he favors a .44 Magnum and a .9 millimeter pistol. "I figure it you've got to shoot somebody and it comes right down to it, you might as well do a complete job of it."

When I first saw the KKK. sign I thought, «They've got to be kidding, or I'm really in trouble. This is Yale, a liberal arts school. "I don~ know which would have been worse- if they turned out to be the real Klan or who they actually were. And the thing is, they said they didn't think of it as racist. I said to the halfMexican guy, .«You don't think of it as racist?

H ow can you think of it as not racist? The KKK persecutes Mexicans in Texas. How could you not understand?"' I said, "I'm an Asian female, I can't change the way I look. " And he said, "Well, you should change yourself."

The three freshman vandals may think of the Klan as a relic from America's history, an organization of southern rednecks far removed from Yale's liberal arts world. Yet while these students consider the KKK no more than a college prank, Dillon, Peterson, Groth and their fellow Conn ecticut Klansmen will continue to don their white robes and rally for white rights only a few miles from campus. As Robert C. Scoggins, Emper-x of the Invisible Empire said, "T:-.e Klan's going to be here when the wor;d ends. Don't ever let anyone tell you different. "

• Martha McBrayer, a Calhoun senior, is wn'ting her senior essay on the Ku Klux KLan.

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Uniting Two New Havens The New Haven in which Yale students live, the gothic and granite enclave surrounded by bright street lights, is a centrally located suburb of the other New Haven, the nation's seventh poorest city. Twenty-three r~.rcent of the residents 9fthe latter live below the poverty level, while a much larger percentage of the former will join the nation's economic elite within a few years.

Historically . the University's tax status and co~mitment to the economic development of New Haven have repeatedly been called into question. Now, due ¡to the city's economic renais.s ance, Yale's relationship to New Haven has once again become a topic for debate. Alison Gardy outlines the two sides . of the controversy about Yale's civic responsibilities and its recent investments in the city's reqevelopment . .Tina Kelley describes a major cooperative effort, Science Park, one of the city's and University's more adventurous and innovative attempts to unite the two New Havens.

The new Sonecor Networks Building, seen from one of the older sections of Science Park.

22 The New J ournai/December 7, 1984

Yale: A Good Neighbor?

Alison Gardy "Go to P ayne-Whitn ey Gym, look out the back window from the running track, and see 'Yale's backyard,' the Dixwell neighborhood ," said Frank Logue, former mayor of New H aven and a Yale Law School graduate. "I think it's in Yale's interest to do something about that backyard."

"Yale as an institution shouldn't get involved in things it doesn't know anything about," said Ralph Halsey, '71, former director of Community and State Relations at Yale and now with the Science Park project. "Social services is at the top of th e list. We don't have any professional schools in that area. To believe Yale knows more about social services than the man in the moon is incorrect."

The d eb ate is almost as old as Yale itself. T he unresolved question of how Yale can balance. its obligation s to itself and to New Haven has surfaced once again- but this time with a new twist.

Over the past five years Yale has become an increasingly active capital investor in the city, where approximately 30,000 residents, over 23 per-

cent of the population, live below the poverty level.

For those who see Yale as primarily an academic institution which happens to exist in New Haven, Yale's contributions seem impressive. For those who stress Yale's role as the leading institutional citizen in New Haven, Yale's contributions are not enough.

Some feel the University, as the number one employer, third largest taxpayer and owner of seven percent of the property in New Haven, is the city's leading institutional citizen. Yale has a responsibility to be a model contributor, to use its v ision and expertise to rebuild the city and to lead other institutions and businesses to make larger commitments to New H aven's renewal.

The Yale administration disagrees; it feels the University helps New H aven by its very presence. It attracts culture and visitors, and through U.S. Grant, the New Haven Teachers' Institute and Dwight Hall volunteer programs, performs social services for New Haven. But Yale first and

foremost is concerned with the education and well-being of its own community. Its primary consideration in a n y investment must be its endowment, the measure of Yale's security.

The University's investment policy must be cautious and self-interested.

"Yale has always had a very tentative approach to the community-one foot on the brake," Logue said. "I'm very aware of Yale's contribution to the city, but I don't see any sign that it thinks of itself in citizen terms and I think it should." Logue suggested Yale set aside more money for Program Related Investments which have a socia l purpose and are not expected to return market rates. "It will c'ost something to do it and not to do it," he said. H e encouraged investments in low-cost housing and the city school system, which only five years ago had a 30 percent dropout rate among 16- to 19-year olds. Compared to suburban high school dropouts, city school g raduates have a 20 percent lower chance of finding jobs. "The New Haven sch ool system has lost credibiliThe Ne w J ournaVD ecembe r 7, 1984 23

ty in the eyes of area employers," according to the City's Poverty Commission. . John Buckman, vice president for finance at Yale, defends Yale's caution in investing. "I think some members of the community expect Yale to do an inordinate amount. Yale can not singleh andedly bring economic well-being back to New Haven. That requires a community effort."

Reverend John Hay of the United C hurch in New Haven and a graduate of the Yale Divinity and Drama Schools sees the issue as part of a larger problem. "The trend of the country is individualistic," he said. "Opportunity is a self-centered word. I would hope Yale would tune into the older vision of . community, but I think it's drifting with the rest of the country toward a more individualistic philosophy. The history of Yale could be written as a history of withdrawal. Yale is denying its roots."

On the other hand, John Wilkinson, secretary of the University and chairman of the Economic Development Commission of New Haven, said Yale's in volvement in New Haven has grown increasingly active. "Starting with World War I, Yale closed the city out. The doors on Old Campus going out into the city were closed. We turned our backs on the city. As Bart Giamatti says, 'Yale didn't discover it was an urban university until 1970.'

We've been trying in the last 15 years to be more involved."

A major sign of Yale's recent involvement in New Haven is its increasing number of capital investments. In 1961 Yale contributed $4.5 million to the construction of the Chapel Square Mall, then for two decades made virtually no fu rther investments in rhe city.

"I t's only in the last five years that Yale has done much of this kind of investment," said Buckman. "Prior to th at, New H aven was in a difficult period- the early '70s- as it went throu gh the urban crises that many cities went through, symbolized by the Black Panther trial and all of the urban 24 The New JournaVDecem be r 7, 1984

"When you get down to it, we're in the real estate business, and not in the business of solving social problems." violence and rioting that occurred here. And I don't think anyone was very excited, including the Yale investment committee, about investing money in downtown New Haven. It just looked awfully risky. So it's a combination of change in attitude and of New Haven becoming a safer, more interesting place to inve.st money. It's sort of a fortuitous coincidence."

In 1979 Yale began a five-year spree in New Haven downtown development by lending $350,000 to help finance conversion of the Taft Hotel.

Two years later, the University committed property, funds and office space to Science Park, and extended a ground lease for converting the Sterling Nursing Dormitory to apartments. In 1982 Yale loaned $500,000 for the purchase and renovation of One Broadway and anqther $1.45 million to Schiavone Realty for the Shubert Square project. A year later Yale loaned $1.5 million toward the renovation of the Chapel Square Mall, and this year the University is selling its property at Whitney and Grove Streets for a mixed-use project.

"As the city improves, more people become interested in investing," Buckman said. "I could easily conceive of investments being proposed as if they were the same quality as the endowment investments that we make."

But Logue criticized Yale's investments as meek. "Yale made a small loan guarantee to the Taft and only a six or seven percent contribution to the Chapel Square Mall development."

Logue further said investments in

downtown development alone will not really help New Haven where it needs help most. "Hartford is the classic example that downtown development does not solve a city's most pressing problems. Hartford is the fourth richest financial center and fourth poorest city in the U.S. It has the fastest percentage growth of office space, yet it is the poorest city per 1 f a pita. The Hartford community and city government are now proposing a 'linkage concept' of investment: if you want to have a big development in H artford, you have to do something . for the neighborhood. Business people are beginning to understand that this has to happen. We [in New Haven) don't even have the business leadership that Hartford has. It is in Yale's selfinterest to provide that leadership."

The University has not followed this linkage concept, however. The Shubert Square project is a good example of the type of large investment Yale is willing to make in New Haven.

The project is supposed to create an entertainment district on College Street and attract prosperity to the area, though it has yet to benefit poorer city residents. Mayor Biagio DiL ieto, in a presentation to the Board of Aldermen in 1982, spoke of the project as a necessity: "We cannot afford the loss of more retail business. We do not want our downtown to be the discount center of the metropolitan region . We do not want our downtown to shut down for the night at 6:00 p.m."

The Shubert Theater, the centerpiece of the project, opened last winter and the Palace opened in September 1984. Profit, a business newsletter, hailed the Shubert's gala opening and predicted its benefit to New Haven business: "Y~u can park your car, have a meal, go dancing and drinking after.

Money flows."

But for many people in New Haven , the money does not flow or even trickle from the Shubert. The project has problems that could be inherent in Yale's other capital investments. First, the Shubert does not provide manY

The Chapel Square Mall.

jobs to New Haven residents, in a city where "in some neighborhoods, the unemployment rate is above 20 percent, while an additional 40 percent o r more of adults are no longer even looking for jobs," according to the Poverty Commission's 1984 report. In fact more than two-thirds of the full Shubert staff live outside the city. The vast majority of the house staff workers from the city are elderly or members of the Urban Youth League, and are volunteers. Only half the full list of ern: ployees work for each show; the other half are temporarily laid ofC Second, the Shubert brings up the issue o f gentrification. "While New Haven's powerful h eap praise on Uoell Schiavone," wrote Paul Bass in the June 1983 New Haven Magazine, "others -like the tenants he evicted (in 1982) from the El Dorado Apartments o n Chapel Street so he could fix the place up and charge higher rents-don't. He refused to give them any money or help in finding new houses until legal aid lawyers took him. to cour t." The same thing h appened again with other apartments Schiavone wanted to rehabilitate.

"Progress hurts minority, low-income people," said prominent real estate developer Schiavone in the same issue of New Haven Magazine, "and when you get down to it, we're in the real estate business , and not in the business of solving social problems . . .

Unfortunately, the economics mean that downtown areas should be the most expensive real estate, not the cheapest. But it hurts (the poor] and it's too bad."

Gentrification is also an issue in Yale's commercial and h ousing real estate . The University owns most of the commercial properties near campus, including Naples, WaWa, The Blossom Shop, R osey's Cleaners, all the stores under the Center for British An on Chapel Street, a nd many others along Broadway, Elm, York, Park, Wall , Church, Chapel and Edwards Streets.

"Over the years, Yale has acquired these so that the n ature of retail The New journaUDecember 7, 1984 25

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But for many people in New Haven, the money does not flow or even trickle from the Shubert.

.. business stays small and oriented toward the University," said Buckman.

These stores cater particularly to Yale students' tastes, which account for the disproportionate number sellin g ice cream, cookies and Yale clothing.

The University has purchased and renovated many dwellings in New Haven for the specific use of Yale students and faculty. Buckman called Yale's efforts to renovate housing facilities along Dwight , H owe and Park streets in the Chapel Street commercial area "an example of how an institution can contribute to the community with its own investments in mind."

Marcia R yan, director of Yale's real estate office, said one of Yale's recent housing projects - the Lake and Dixwell Development- "renovated the area from one of prostitutes and drugs to 23 units of nice apartments rented out to the Yale community ."

First Ward alderwoman Janet Stearns, '84, who lives on Lake Place, points out that building nice houses does not make prostitutes and drugs disappear. "Yale is certainly gentrifying the area. That's a fact. Yale is pushing back poverty on my block but is not dealing with the people who are there, whom I have to pass every day on my way to or from home. The worst problem Yale faces right now is dealing with poverty and crime in New Haven. One of the major reasons why people tell you they won't come to Yale is New Haven. " Buckman thought it unlikely that Yale would invest in projects such as low-cost housing for the New Haven

.

"when the driving gets absolutely necessary .. " community: "I don't think we've ever done anything concerned that directly with community interest, and I would doubt that we ever would. We do have investment criteria for this money. It's not money that is just sitting there and can be invested with no return."

"I don't think Yale's investments are all that locked in," said Reverend Charles King of Immanuel Baptist Church in New Haven and a Yale Divinity School graduate. "Yale certainly .could shift more of its investments into New Haven than it has without threatening its income."

Halsey denied that Yale should take leadership resp0nsibility in changing New Haven. "To say that any large employer has the responsibility to change the life of the city by changing the life of its citizens is just not part of its mission." Yet' the University's very presence in New Haven changes the lives of its citizens. Although Yale pays taxes on only a small part of its holdings in the city, it brings culture, jobs and thousands of people, with purchasing power in the millions of dollars, to New Haven throughout the year.

"Yale's relations with the New Haven community are very good," said Maureen Murphy, assistant director of Yale's Community and State Relations Office. "They aren't perfect, but they're very strong. Only a small group sees Yale as something else that they don't really like. Others see it as a positive influence."

Stearns disagrees. "I think that there's a lot of underlying bitterness in the community which shows itself in different forms."

It will be a long time before Yale resolves, if it ever does, its roles as a private educational institution and as a leading citizen of New Haven. Said Buckman, "There's some amount that Yale ought to be prepared to invest in New Haven as a member of this city. I don't know what that investment is.

We are trying to determine it. It varies. It tends to move very slowly over time."

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Investing in Science Tina Kelley

The steel door of the old brass works factory opened on a huge, empty room. A pigeon flew across the large space beneath the steel girders supporting the structure. Strips of blistered paint hung from them. Henry "Sam" ¡ Chauncey, Jr., president of the nonprofit Science Park D evelopment Corporation (SPDC) and former secretary of Yale, stepped inside, escorting prospective investors through Science Park, the first high-technology com. plex in the nation created by a corporation, a university and a city.

"I f you believe universities are going to have a growing relationship with the business c.ommunity, and I do, it may be that havin g that relationship in a ~ ~

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28 The New journal/December 7 , 1984

neutral facility halfway between is a good thing," said Chauncey, '57, describing how Yale could benefit from its new neighbors. "If what has happened so far continues, there will be a ¡variety of types of work here for Yale students, who could then supplement wages to pay for their education. Our presence might well induce Yale graduates to stay here permanently, especially if they've worked at Science Park as students. Then there's the neighborhood value- Science Park represents a major chunk of Yale's western perimeter. Any Improvement here is bound to benefit Yale."

For Chauncey, one of the most important goals of the P ark is to help revive the D ixwell-Newhallville ne ighborhood. "The worst result for Science Park would be to have a high class, modern scientific technical park and not have a good influence on the neighborhood, a park that didn't create jobs and economic help."

Located west of Science Hill on Division Street, the industrial complex provides space for newly incorporated or "embryo" companies, light industrial plants and established firms.

Science Park now offers its tenants computer, bookkeeping and secretarial assistance, telecommunication lines and access to investors. "There is no lack of venture capital in the United States today," s~id C hauncey. "T here is n o lack of good ideas. B ut there is a terrible lack of good man agement to imple ment them. T hese services will free an embryo comp any to concentrate o n the real work."

T here a re now 40 ¡corporations h o used o n the 80-acre tract, with only 13 acres developed. Although Science P ar k lacks the futuristic glitter of other in d ustrial complexes, it attracts about

three inquiries each week from prospective settlers. "We currently can't j\CCept any new tenants unless they build," Chauncey explained later, as he sat in his office in Five Science Park, a renovated munitions factory built in 1912. SPD C has plans for opening a similar facility this winter.

The hall outside Chauncey's office passes by such companies as the Olin Chemicals Medical Facility, MicroGene Systems, Aqua-Tech and American Sun Systems, and opens on another era, a sprawling empty factory room with desks piled in the corner.

An unplugged water fountain stands by a column in the center, and light streams in through walls of windows.

The whole building looked like this less than a decade ago, but now it is filled to capacity with 25 start-up companies.

"I had no idea that it'd fill up so soon ," Chauncey said. "Entrepreneurism in America is exploding.

When I started this program virtually everyone I talked to thought I was a fooL Now they can see how it is possible."

Before 1981 the prognosis for the site was grim. Between 1955 and 1981, 16,000 jobs had evaporated from the area's heavy manufactur ing companies such as Olin and Winchester Repeating Arms, a number equal to DixwellNewhallv ille's population today.

Unemployment and crime threatened to turn the neighborhood into a slum.

Chauncey worked in the Yale administration for 24 years and served on the New H aven Development Commission for more than ten. H e helped bring the S PDC together in an attempt to unite the diverse interests of the University, the city and the Olin Corporation, which donated 80 acres to the project. By the end of 1983, city ,

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state and federal contributions to the Park totaled $8.5 million, and corpora· tions began to settle in Science Park.

At that time, every tenant had arrived through a referral from a Yale alumni or faculty member.

The University has supplied more than connections to the complex, however. Often the very presence of a research university can spur the development of high-technology areas.

"Our executives won't put a new com· pany down in a town unless there's a major university in the area," said Pete M cCloskey, a former congress· man for the Silicon Valley industrial area in Santa Clara, California. The same reasoning applies on the East Coast.

According to SPDC's first annual report, "The physical prox imity to Yale and its Science Hill and the willingness of Yale to work closely with us has been Science Park's single major selling point." Since 1981 the U n iversity has donated four acres· of land and helped provide the Park with access to libraries, lab space, computer time, student recruiting channels and con· suiting work.

"In my view, if Science Park sue· ceeds, Yale will gain great rewards from its relatively small investment to date," Chauncey said. So far, such benefits have been academic as weU as financial. Dr. Robert Bickerton, direc· tor of Yale's Office of Cooperative Research, described how a professor was able to help a Science Park com· pany with an electronic switch prob· lem . "By contributing to the solution of industry's problems," he said, "the faculty member benefits from being able to help, the company benefits from being helped, and the students gain from their teacher's experience and become better prepared to enter an industr ial environment."

"A lot of what I learn for class comes directly from my job," said Steven Per· mut, a marketing instructor at the School of Organization a nd Manage· ment. "Marketing work is my lab work, and is directly translatable to the class." Permut works in Science Park

"Science Park is in a Catch-22 situation.

It's caught between the city and the community."

•• for Market Sciences Incorporated, a consulting firm which e mployed 15 students last summer. He also believes that the Park can increase the number of Yale graduates who settle in New Haven . "I think it will prove a carrot," he said, "though there are man y car· rots- the downtown, the city's cultural life, its social life."

K ate Dilley, '84 and her two room· mates, also recent graduates, work at International Biotechnologies, Incor· porated (IBI), a Science Park company which employs 23 students. Dilley , a market analyst, worked there as an undergraduate when IBI first opened.

"It's a very young company, brand new, and a lot of the people who work there are very young," she said. "It's a great way to learn."

Science Park may soon make New H aven an attractive address for many .

"I think Yale w ill fmd it easier to attract the kind of faculty they want, because they can offer access to this communi· ty," said Lew Bowers, acting director for the city's Office of Economic Development. "Science Park is helping attract new businesses with large futu r es, businesses which could become major employers five years down the road. The potential is infinite for the number of jobs- I think we could easily get up to 10,000. This all enhances th,. view of the University as situated in a viable, dynamic city."

For the une mployed 48 percent of the Dixwell-Newhallville residents, however, that view has yet to become reality. Chauncey and other members of the SPDC have held over 100

Wall Food Store Compku Line of Grocems Cold Soda, Cigarettes, Candy, Dairy Products, Patent Medicines, and Newspapers. meetings with local residents, often working to find reasonable mortgages and other financial assistance.

Chauncey recalled: "They said to me, 'Do anything you can to create jobs.

We'll decide how to spend the money.' " "I don't think Science Park's in a position to help us," said Willie Green, executive director of the NewhallVITle Neighborhood Corporation. "Science Park is in a Catch-22 situtation . It's caught between the city and the community. The Neighborhood Corporation lost $56,000 through the Community Development Act. The city says the funds went towards the $200,000 they gave to Science Park, but this has no impact on the community on the whole.

"The city says Science Park's our savior, and we see it can't get us jobs.

There are very decent individuals [in the SPDC] who've tried to be a resource for us, and they've called us in when they had no job openings, but the Park offers hi-tech jobs, and the community's not qualified for them."

To help remedy this situation, the Corporation has instituted training programs specifically for the benefit of New Haven youth. Downstairs from Science Park headquarters, the Regional Council 'On Education for Employment (RCEE) cond!-lcts the first training program jointly sponsored by the federal government and a private corporation. IBM has donated $250,000, business equipment and instructors who teach disadvantaged high school graduates word processing and office skills. Of the 25 participants in the second 15-week cycle of the program , all but one have found full-time jobs. Half of them are from DixwellNewhallville. "Science Park has affected Dixwell- N ewhallville in a very positive way," said Willie Bradley, a RCEE career counsellor and Newhallville resident.

Along with tax abatements and newjob grants Science Park companies will receive under state enterprise zone legislation for employing area residents, the RCEE program is a first

step in the Park's efforts to spur the economic recovery of the surrounding area. Eventually, the SPDC hopes to attract $1 million in new tax revenues for the city and 2,000 jobs, half of them for Dixweli-Newhallville residents.

Since June 1, 1983 the Corporation has created 413 new jobs, 104 for neighborhood residents, for a total of 489 Dixweli-Newhallville employees.

As more companies move into the complex, job openings in food preparation, security and maintenance can be earmarked for the predominantly unskilled neighborhood residents.

Still, Chauncey balks at the slow T ace of development. "How has Science Park helped the neighborhood? To give a vivid answer, it hasn't," he said. "I think it has, but it's important to realize that it's not going to happen overnight. It's terribly frustrating for me and the people who live around here. If you come in and say that improvements will take place 20 years from now, it's frustrating for everyone."

The three-year grants Science Park received from Olin and New Haven expire this month, and Chauncey will be asking his sponsors for further funding. "We'll have to show them what we've done already with practically no money," he said. "Economic development is by nature a very slow process.

We'll soon see psychological advantages because of the building of the first new building, and the place will begin to look a little better with its new parking lot and plantings, but it will be 15 to 20 years before we can really tell how successful we'll be."

Though slow, the process is crucial for everyone involved. "If New Haven fails," Chauncey said, "Yale fails, and vice versa."

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Tina Kelley, a senior in Morse, is editor-in-

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It's Only Rock & Roll "America: the land where any kid can grow up to be President, or, if he's luckier, Elvis."

32 The New journaVDecember 7, 1984

Friday night at the Cafe Grotto isn't what you expected. When you heard the Grotto was a punk club, visions of the Sex-Pistolized kids who hang out on Cross Campus probably slam danced in your head, but now that you've finally sl,lmmon~d the courage to walk all the way down to 130 Crown Street, a mere six blocks from P helps Gate, you find you don't really need a purple mohawk to fit in. Pay your four dollars, walk in, grab a beer, pass a group of serious punks (clothes torn in all the right places) and take a seat with a good view of the new-wavers bopping on the dance floor. The fashions are courtesy of London Touch; neon is in this month.

Tonight's warm-up band is a local punk-funk group, just good enough to keep a small crowd dancing. To the right, a thirtyish couple who look llke they might have been extras for Saturday Night Fever drop another quarter in the pinball machine. Two girls dressed in black gowns with black lace gloves and veils walk by, closely followed by two guys in flannel shirts, jeans and sneakers who look like they just might ask the two girls to dance. T he fiftyyear-old man who's been standing at the back of the dance floor comes by and picks up your empty. The crowd at the Grotto is surprisingly cross cultural, cross racial, and cross generational.

The crowd knows the Grotto is the only place around New H aven where every night of the week someone will be playing real live rock and roll, true to the spirit of the garage bands of the '60s, true to the idea that anyone can play rock and roll and everyone should.

T he bands at the Grotto - local high school groups, u nknowns from New York City and Boston, little-k nown national acts - prove something night after night: the American rock and roll dream still lives. If you want to be a rock and roll star, just get yourself an

electr ic guitar and learn how to play.

T he headline band tonight is from New York City. They're called Singing Beach. No one really knows who they aoo, and they've performed live twice b efore. When they take the stage, they launch into a neo-psychedelic instrumental no one can dance to, but then start playing some real pop tunes, with words, a beat and everything. People start getting out of their seats. The Grotto is small, and if you walk up to the front of the stage you can see the tall blonde vocalist, Janet Wygal, has a greeting card and a small doll at the top of her amp. If you try hard enough you can even read the card. It's her birthday.

By the time Singing Beach finishes their set the crowd is really into it. People clap and whistle for an encore.

Someone starts banging on the stage.

The band comes back and reprises "Gath ering Roses," the song they want to release as a single, if anyone ever signs them to a record label. A guy in a grey polyester suit and black turtleneck who's been pushed up against the stage all night starts fanatically snapping photo after photo. His camera strap adds the perfect new-wave touch to his outfit: it's red, white and blue striped with little white stars along the edges.

Someone on the dance floor is really getting down and doing the dog. His feet slap the floor in a Snoopy shuffie, his hands are drawn up against his chest like paws. He barks in time to the music. W h en the band finishes, Wygal steps up to the mike. "We can't play anymore," she says. ~That's all the songs we know."

After the show the band retreats to the little white d r essing room on the side of the stage. T he guy in the grey polyester suit follows them. H e knows all about them. He knows they used to be called the Individuals, and that they

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recorded an album under that name at Mitch Easter's Drive-In Studio in ~ North Carolina. Easter is a music producer whose chirpy, energetic, neo:; garage production techniques have been dubbed the "new American sound" e by Rolling Stone. In a quirky literaliza=; tion of the ideal of garage band rock, Easter converted his parents' garage in Winston-Salem, North Carolina into a rc;yording studio. Bands like R.E.M., the Bongos and Easter's own Let's Active hole up in the Easter house, eat Mrs. Easter's cooking and make the sort of music which just might get every American kid thinking he could be a rock and roll star.

The hand-lettered sign of the dressing room door isn't exactly tough or authoritative: BAND MEMBERS ONLY PLEASE It doesn't stop too many people from inviting themselves backstage, and it sure doesn't stop the guy in the grey polyester suit from living out his rock and roll dream: backstage with the band after the gig. But then that's just the point. The Grotto's a place where rock and roll dreams can still come true, a place where anybody with an electric guitar can be a star, a place where people can dance to living music instead of records, a place where anyone, even a guy in grey polyester, can end up backstage with the band after the gig.

Backstage tonight things are a bit confused. The dressing room is a jungle of black cables leading to black boxes.

Someone in the band tries to figure out just how many free beers they're entitled to. Lead guitarist David Hoaston, whose accent is a sure tip-off he's from somewhere in England, explains to a friend that the band almost didn't make tonight's show. Someone changed the lock on their practice space in New York and locked up all their equipment, and to top it ofT they lost their bass player. Wygal tries to convince the bass player they found for tonight, Ilene Markell, CC '85 , to join the band.

Markell's no stranger to the dilemma of balancing rock and roll and academics -she's back at Yale after a two-year

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3i The New journal/December 7, 1984

"The almost gone days of rock and roll as a radically democratic art form live again."

leave to play with her last band, Skunkadelic- nor is she a stranger to the Grotto- Skunkadelic was the first band to play the Grotto when it opened November 25, 1983.

"It's a great place," she. says of the Grotto. "It's cheap as hell and you can just walk down here. I don't know why more Yale people don't come. I still think they're afraid to leave a ten-foot radius."

Wygal agrees with Markell about the G rotto. "It feels great to play here. It's a little tomb-like, no, make that womblike; it's got a real comforting feeling.

But then I like a dark cavernous place."

The Grotto's basement location does make it a little dark and tomb-like; at least that's the feeling you get from the plaster stalactites on the ceiling and tiny monks' heads sculpted into the capitals of th e columns in the barroom. "All those stalagmites or stalactites or whatever are leftover from when the place was some bizarre bondage club," booking director Mark Mullcahy explained.

The decor is late art-drecko. In the stage/dance floor area there are at least three kinds of mismatched wallpaper, a non-functional fireplace (probably from the G rotto's days as a German Beer Palace) and Day-Glo squiggles painted on the walls to pick up the black lights over the dance floor. Those black lights are the only lighti!lg on the dance floor -none of the flashing strobes and pulsing colored lights usually found in a dance club, but then, the Grotto's no disco.

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original music makes the club. Levine's an odd case, a walking contradiction in terms- physically old guard, musically avant-garde. The reserved, bony, fiftyish man looks at you from his desk surrounded by posters of the Fleshtones, the Gun Club and the Waitresses and says, "You need a place to hear original music, rock and roll, live.

Qtherwise it's boring. It gets kinda tiresome whenever you listen to the radio or even go out somewhere and hear bands playing other people's music a~! the time. At least here you can hear something maybe you never heard before."

Levine has been on a one-man original music.crusade for quite a while.

When New Haven's last punk club, Ron's Place, shut down to¡ become the Park & Chapel Cafe, he brought the bands left with no place to go to his bar in West Haven, Brothers Three. But the regulars at Brothers didn't mix with the punkers, and when the chance came a year ago to move to a bigger place in

the city, he grabbed it. When you ask him why he, of all people, is so dedicated to running an original music club, he smiles and says flatly, "It's a business." Then looking at the old handbills advertising local bands' shows at the Grotto he adds wistfully, "I take a great deal of pleasure in taking an unknown band that nobody else will let play anywhere and giving them someplace to play, turning them into some- . thj.pg., That's the beauty of the Grotto. It nourishes local talent, brings fresh music to New Haven, injects some life into rock and roll. The Grotto's a holdo.ver from the days when rock and roll was a thing people did, not just listened to. These days when you say rock is a pop-art you mean ~t's a popular art, everybody likes ii:. But when Warhol coined the phrase back in the dark, distant 1960s it meant populist art-anyone could do it. It was the time of garage band rock. All you needed to form a band was a few friends , guitars,

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THE JACKSON- MARVIN bass and drums, and a couple of six packs- instant rock and roll. The Beatles and the Stones both started out playing Chuck Berry tunes in somebody's basement; if they could go all the way to the top, anyone could. That the dream of Everyman as artist, the dream that anybody who could bang out the chords to "Louie Louie" might one day, for one second, be a star, that this dream sometimes comes true is what rock and roll is all about. And it's democratic. America: the land where ~y kid can grow up to be President, or, tf he's luckier, as big as Elvis.

Now things have changed. Bands !pend more time in the studio than on the road, and you don't hear much rock and roll live these days. If you do you're hlore likely to see it in an arena the size of the New Haven Coliseum than a llnall club that offers personal contact.

COmmunication and participation like the Grotto. People don't participate in ~k any more. They listen to records ~nstead of jamming in the garage. And if the medium is still the message, What's the message of a medium like

techn o-pop? That modern man is estranged from his music. What happened to the days of human rock •and roll, when instruments were played, not programmed?

Well, on a Wednesday audition night at the Grotto when an unknown local band takes the stage, kicks out the jams and achieves those moments of stardom (even if it isn't Superstardom), the almost-gone days of rock as a radically democratic art form live again. For just one second the dream of Everyman as artist comes true. And it comes true at the Grotto.

•

Jot Levy is aJunior in Btrktley.

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The New j ournal/D ece mber 7, 1984 37

Yale's Secret Gardens In his recent book Campus, Paul Turner advances the unexceptionable thesis that the campus~ of American colleges and universities are "communities in themselves . . . cities in microcosm," and that their forms are "different from everything else" in American architecture. This is certainly true of Yale in New Haven. Yale shapes a closed-off, secret world. It is a walled garden, a true Paradise set in an urban matrix which is becoming sadder with every passing year .

But Yale's enclo~ure, its special secretiveness, cannot be due exclusively to its urban situation. Harvard, in hostile Cambridge, is not nearly so closed. One can filter into the Yard from almost anywhere. The Harvard ho~ses on the ¡ whole turn much less inward than the Yale colleges do.

Princeton and Dartmouth, off in Cloud-Cuckoo Land, are wide open, but so is Penn, if not Columbia. So it is worth thinking about how Yale got to be the way it is.

At first it was open to the town. Old Brick Row, of which Connecticut H all is the sole survivor, consisted of a splendid rank of buildings, alternating some like Connecticut HaU with others like churches with frontal towers -like, in fact, the churches which came to be built on Temple Street during the early nineteenth century. Entrance, as at Connecticut Hall, was from either side, so that nothing separated Yale from the town but its symbolic Fence along College Street. Here Town and Gown met, mingled and sometimes fought. Those fights got rougher as the city grew bigger and more industrialized.

At the close of the Civil War there was an exceptionally bloody riot (there was a bad one when the troops came home after World War I as well), and the University decided to close itself off from the town. Farnam Hall was planned that very year and completed in 1869. It was a medieval fortress right on College Street. Entrance was possible only on the side away from the Green. All the other buildings along the street followed that pattern; Noah Porter Gate, with Phelps Hall , flaunting its character as a Tudor palace, was set in place in 1895. At the corner of Chapel Street a splendid building by Bruce Price, Osborne Hall, still opened its grand R omanesque portals to the city, but in the 1930s it was replaced by Bingham , a corner bastion. Brick Row was torn down, so creating an enclosed quadrangle, the Old Campus, which is still the only satisfactory large communal open space to be found at Yale. Cross Campus lacks vc.lumetric shape; Beinecke Plaza is unsympathetic, appropriate oply for angry demonstrations; and the college courtyards are just that, collegial perhaps but surely not universal.

They are Yale's ultimate gardens and, unlike the Old Campus as it can be seen from High Street, they are wholly invisible, and thus secret, from the townspeople's point of view. Upon them, too, Yale lavished its most elaborate architecture. It is interesting to note that James Gamble Rogers, (who graduated from Yale in 1889) who has to be regarded as their creator, built very little else worth looking at (on which short list New Haven's Post Office should rank high). The colleges were Rogers' major work, really his life's work, and he poured his special devotion to Yale into them. Their decoration, soon to be discussed in a study by 38 The New Journal/December 7, 1984

the young historian Stephen Fitch. '81, indeed reveals Roger? preoccupation with Yale's more arcane secrets, but the major form nf the colleges, the dosed quadrangle, is secret enough. Then, too, they are all marvelously escapist; Gothic first, Colonial later, and they were attacked as such during the early days of their construction by a lively undergraduate publication called The Harkness Hoot.

Still, modernist contempt for their eclecticism, in which my generation was brought up, can now be disregarded.

They are marvelous architecture, shaping as they do splendidly realized courtyard spaces with highly convincing, beautifully built and detailed building forms. Indeed, Stiles and Morse, the latest to be built-and designed not by Rogers but by Eero Saarinen- are much the least convincing, precisely bec;ause modernist reductionism has seriously impoverished their architectural vocabulary. It is a touching sidelight on their planning, nevertheless, that Saarinen designed them on the diagonal in order to encourage townspeople to walk through the block, rather than to be forced always to the periphery as they are by Yale's quadran~les. Saarinen did not even want his colleges to have gates. Now, alas, those gates seem to have to be closed ti~ht a good deal of the time.

The very first of the colleges, Branford and Saybrook, are the most elaborate and probably the best. They were not originally intended for colleges but were begun in the 191 Os as one great residential complex, Harkness Memorial Quadrangle, and were subdivided in the early 1930s when the college system was brou~ht into b e ing.

H ere the courtyard spaces, overlooked by the great tower, are among the strongest in any of the colleges and at the same time the most labyrinthine, in that sense the most secret, with many tiny courts tucked away, so making much play with the age-old idea of the secret garden. The decoration too is the richest and at least one of the most elaborately iconographic, full of more or less veiled references to Yale's peculiar ways.

It is interesting that the first contemporary study of the Yale r.olleges to take them seriously as architecture was made by Paul Goldberger, '72, then one qfthe early editors of The New journal and now architectural critic for the New York Times, as his senior thesis at Yale. Goldberger, who won the Pulitzer Prize last year, concentrated on the forms of the buildings, which, if I remember correctly, he called something like "Banker's Gothic" and "Banker's Georgian."

So while he was among the fU"St to look at them sympathetically he still seemed to feel the need to strike a somewhat pejorative note in their stylistic naming. The present study by Fitch, however, is involved much less with style than with meaning, and it will surely teach us a good deal about Yale and so, one supposes, about ourselves.

One thing is clear right now: Yale is an unusually secret place. It closes in upon itself in an attempt at isolation which cannot be ascribed only to its urban situation, but has to be regarded as deeply systemic, elaborately tribal and surely rather proud.

â&#x20AC;˘Vincent Scully, '40, is Sterling Professor of the History ofArt.

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The New journal/December 7, 1984 39

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