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Perfect Columbia Day
Rod Allee, Alum
Graduate School of Arts and Sciences 1997


Submitted by Rod Allee, GSAS '97, American Studies

A gorgeous early summer day in 1992.

There was a breeze, slow and thorough, that afternoon. The brown haze had been blown clean beyond memory, leaving a shocking azure, in fact an azure's azure. It was quiet, too, which to me was always one of the big surprises of the Columbia campus in clamorous New York. I was early.

The class was Architectural History of New York, the professor Andrew Dolkart. I was scared to death. I knew nothing about architecture. Nothing, except – maybe – that Victorian homes generally had more than one floor. At least it looked that way in "Meet Me in St. Louis" and Ridgewood, New Jersey. But I needed this class.

I was thumbing through my notes on the front steps of Avery Hall, where the class would meet in about an hour. Hard to concentrate, though, with that warm breeze. So I roused myself. Maybe to stretch my legs, probably to explore the unexpected silence. I finally finished my twenty-yard trek on a bench in front of Uris Hall. Uris meant business, as efficiently buried in my background as was architecture. I'd never wanted to be rich. I'd never even wanted a big Victorian home, especially if it was in St. Louis. Being a full-time journalist and a part-time Columbia student were enough for me.

Architecture. What could I tell about the architecture of Uris?

It was impressive, I could tell. Yet it appeared more homey, in this last decade of America's mass material culture century, than might be expected. What else would be worth pointing out by, say, an Andrew Dolkart? No clue. But there was something that caught my eye beneath the azure afternoon sky.

The trim of Uris was painted green. An odd green, yes, but somehow familiar. It was muted, almost faded though it was not chipped or frayed, not in any way in need of scraping and a fresh coat. Now where had I seen that before?

Oh. I knew.

I sat on my notes, took out my billfold and pulled out an old dollar. The filigree and George Washington himself were gray; the serial number and the Treasury Department stamp were green all right, but a bright, crisp green. Not Uris green.

I turned it over and there it was, the muted green, the Uris green. Uris meant business and business meant money and the backside of money meant this shade of green and lots of it. I wondered if everyone else had made the connection. Probably not. Maybe those serious business students I'd seen barreling down Uris's halls whenever I'd ventured in to use the men's room had never given a thought to the odd green trim on their educational homestead. Maybe a lot of people at Columbia had never noticed. Had Andrew Dolkart noticed?

I wouldn't put it past him. From what I could tell, Dolkart knew far more about architecture than was decent. But if he didn't know I wasn't going to tell him, at least right away. If he asked me at some point what I thought about architecture (any architecture), I'd reply, Hey, did you know Uris Hall was trimmed the color of old money? Isn't that unusual? Ever seen anything like that, Professor Dolkart?

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