COLUMN: On my time here

From J. Christopher Robbins' "Don't Tread on Me," Fall '96 From J. Christopher Robbins' "Don't Tread on Me," Fall '96A springtime walk through the QuadrangleFrom J. Christopher Robbins' "Don't Tread on Me," Fall '96A springtime walk through the Quadrangleevokes memories, reflection and a sense ofFrom J. Christopher Robbins' "Don't Tread on Me," Fall '96A springtime walk through the Quadrangleevokes memories, reflection and a sense ofthe University's history and traditions. From J. Christopher Robbins' "Don't Tread on Me," Fall '96A springtime walk through the Quadrangleevokes memories, reflection and a sense ofthe University's history and traditions. It is a glorious spring day in the Quadrangle. Flowers are in bloom, trees are budding and sunlight fills the green space. Gentle breezes puff tepid air past sunbathing students, their textbooks shut beside them. A lone rosebush by Rodney, barren all winter, shows signs of life. I've lived here since my first day at Penn, and few have been this splendid. We seniors will be lucky to get a few more days this perfect before graduation. I walk about spying Gargoyles, fancy masonry work and Latin engravings. After more than 1,000 days of Quad exploration and sightseeing, I doubt there's an interesting space in this old building I haven't seen, from rooftops to subterranean dungeons and seven-story sun decks. Walking around now, I see so much meaning, so many memories. "Francis Salisbury McIlhenny, Class of 1895," reads a stone inscription on the building bearing his name. He will be remembered for "his integrity, gentleness and firmness of character." Although these should be timeless traits, the epitaph seems distant; the words, cast in stone only 68 years ago, sound incongruous with today's speech. In contrast, I recall the modern-day advice a Political Science professor once gave me about firmness of character: "At Penn, you have to know when to speak out and when to keep your mouth shut. I chose to keep quiet." I was immediately embarrassed he was a member of our university's faculty. Sadly, after 35 classes, I've only had a few great professors whose integrity and firmness of character is uncompromising. Much of my almost 1500 hours of class time was spent -- by necessity and requirement -- with instructors who were patently spiritless, uninspiring and dull. Yet within the rocky soil I found several gems to whom I am forever grateful. First is my advisor, History Professor Walter McDougall, who is nothing short of inspirational. His command of history is masterful; his classes are always engaging, often exhilarating and frequently intense. His diplomatic history courses were the only ones that succeeded in getting me up, out and alert (not to mention extremely excited) for a 9 a.m. lecture. George Thomas, who teaches in the Art History and Urban Studies departments, is also first-rate. He brought to my life a heightened appreciation for beauty and grace, imparted to me the meaning of art and architecture and how they are a reflection of the values and beliefs of our society. Alan Kors's intellectual history classes were likewise dynamic and enlightening. What's more, Kors's dedication to students is steadfast and his determination to make Penn a better place for intellectualism is unparalleled. I walk under the arch toward McClelland Hall; it's empty. By Bodine, I recognize someone I met at a panel on free speech sophomore year. We never became close, but I respect his intellect and there's a feeling of familiarity between us. "Let's have lunch soon," he says. It was an earnest offer, but I know I'll probably never see him again. Many in our class fought against the injustices, the abuses and the corruption. On many counts we won. On some, there is still much to be accomplished. Yet it is with great pride that we leave behind a venerable legacy: one of activism, intolerance for inequity and revulsion for double standards. I dare say that our brave days at Penn in the early 1990s were nothing like Berkeley in the 1960s. Here, the student movement against ideological obedience and coercive faculty and administrators was entirely defensive -- and it had meaning. I am proud of the progress Penn has made. The great, green copper statue of George Whitefield, the fiery Methodist preacher who sparked the Great Awakening, catches my eye as I stroll by. "Reverend," I think, "You have been there for so many conversations, for so many meetings with friends, for so many quiet lunches. You have seen me at my best, and at my worst -- last year, when I over-indulged at Fling -- and your solid foundation supported me, in spite of my transgression. Forgive me." I return to my room on the third floor of Warwick. All three tall, leaded-glass windows are open and the air is fresh. I look out at the view, the same one I've enjoyed for two years now: a carved angel above me, the spires of Provost Tower, the brick belt courses, the battlements atop Thomas Penn. Straight out from my desk is the old seal of the University and the old motto "Literae Sine Moribus Vanae" (learning without morals is in vain). A student begins to play her violin across the courtyard. The sounds she produces are refined and melodious, not harsh or squeaky like those of an amateur's hand. I hope she's reading this now, for her music added solace to my studies all year. The sun is setting; it's a glorious sight. The last bright, orange rays barely illuminate the tops of chimneys. The majestic horses that brace the state seal are in the vast shadow of dusk, and the carved banner below is barely decipherable: "Liberty, Virtue, Independence." I know the words will glow tomorrow when the sun rises again. I have dinner plans in a few hours with an old friend. For us seniors, social life is picking up quickly as academic life wanes. My answering machine relays options ranging from Murphy's Tavern to Manhattan for the night, but I'm not interested -- I have a prior commitment with Mr. McIlhenny.