WHY WEST PHILLY ARCHITECTURE GIVES US THE CREEPS
Among the trivia that all prospective students learn on their official tour of Penn is that College Hall was the inspiration for the mansion that houses the Addams family, the “creepy and kooky” clan created by renowned cartoonist and Penn alum Charles Addams. As it turns out, the connection between the two buildings is nothing more than one of the University’s most widely circulated legends.
The idea that Addams — who received a degree in fine arts from Penn in 1934 — based the “mysterious and spooky” mansion on the University’s central building was merely an easy assumption made by those who observed the cartoonist’s “love for towering gothic facades,” according to urban studies professor George Thomas’s book Building America’s First University. In fact, Addams himself repeatedly denied the rumors. But the story was perpetuated by a 1973 Pennsylvania Gazette issue, which featured an illustration of the Addams family standing in front of College Hall on the magazine’s cover.
The cartoonist, who passed away in 1988, has left a more legitimate legacy on campus in recent years, however. In 2001, the former Faculty Club was renovated and renamed Charles Addams Fine Arts Hall, thanks to a donation from his widow. The building, located at Walnut and 36th Streets, was the first permanent home for the Penn fine arts department.
Though the rumors about College Hall are decidedly false, campus is filled with other eerie Gothic architecture that could have inspired Addams. Chances are Cousin It and the gang would feel right at home at Penn.
— Inna Lifshin
PENN DOES ITS BEST TO PROTECT STUDENT VIRGINITY For many freshmen, the Hill College House experience is marked by cramped quarters, co-ed camaraderie and gossip of hallcest. But 50 years ago, the dormitory was all-female — a housing policy reinforced by the building’s medieval design. Hill, originally named the Women’s Residence Hall, was built in 1960 with a drawbridge, moat and spiked fence intended to keep those frisky men out. This was also done to “make parents feel secure about their daughters moving into Wild West Philly,” said Thomas. During these years, gender-specific housing was just one way of ensuring that women would stay out of trouble — female students were required to wear skirts or dresses to class and had to abide by an 11 p.m. curfew, according to a 2001 article from the Daily Pennsylvanian. Penn dorms finally became co-ed in 1970, when 100 female students were allowed to live in the Quad for the first time. Hill’s notoriously small rooms were rumored to be a legacy of these single-sex early years. According to legend, administrators decided to increase the occupancy of Hill by converting single rooms into doubles, figuring that women wouldn’t mind the squeeze. Many people thought that “they used a pseudo-science that said women are neater than men, so they wouldn’t need as much space,” Thomas explained. But in truth, the decision was made for economic reasons. Hill was initially meant to be a complex of four houses with many single rooms, but the plan was later modified to save the University money. Too bad what's left is the eyesore at 34th and Walnut Streets. — Inna Lifshin
ALMOST AS COOL AS HOGWARTS (BUT NOT REALLY) Legend has it that a sophisticated network of tunnels exists under the Quad, conjuring images of students shuffling through secret enclosed passageways on their way to class. It turns out the rumors are true — almost. The tunnels do exist but were really constructed to allow heat and electricity to reach the entire campus. In the late 19th century, the University had its own power plant. The tunnels, which are large enough for humans to navigate, housed the wires and pipes that connected campus buildings and delivered basic utilities to all. According to Thomas, there is “nothing nefarious” about them. In fact, most large institutions of the time, including other universities, functioned in much the same way. Too bad. Around the 1930s, the power plant moved off campus and the tunnels became unnecessary. Many of them have since been filled in, Thomas said. But that doesn't mean students can't still go searching for the entrance door in the Quad. Rumor has it that some campus Greek organizations use the defunct tunnels for their "initiation" activities. And really, what better place for a late-night rendezvous? — Laura Mandel
SHOWING UP PRINCETON, HISTORY-STYLE If you search for Penn on Wikipedia (everyone’s favorite source of instant wisdom), you’ll learn that our school was established in 1740, making it America’s first university and fourth-oldest institution of higher education. But the story is a bit more complicated — in fact, a number of years have been cited as Penn’s official founding date, some of them more grounded in Ivy League competition than in historical fact. In truth, it was not until 1749 that Benjamin Franklin published his Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pensilvania [sic], and not until 1751 that courses were actually taught for the first time. What’s more, the east tower of College Hall bears the founding date of 1755, the year that the College of Philadelphia finally got a charter, Thomas wrote in his book Building America’s First University. So why 1740? Apparently, the earlier the better for 19th century Penn officials — especially when it came to beating out Princeton, whose official date of founding is 1746. Just another case of Quaker-Tiger rivalry. — Laura Mandel
A HUMAN TORCH FOR LIBERTY Penn students have grown accustomed to unusual displays of social activism on and around College Green, strolling past everything from preaching evangelicals to heaps of College House garbage. But one autumn day in 1996, a number of unsuspecting passers-by witnessed the ultimate display of public protest: the suicide of a local activist named Kathy Change. At around 11 a.m., the 46-year-old woman set herself on fire in front of the peace symbol statue on the Green, in a final and dramatic attempt to call attention to her political beliefs. According to a Daily Pennsylvanian article from the day after the incident, a University police officer made a heroic attempt to save the burning woman, covering her in his patrol jacket and rolling her to the ground to smother the flames. Change, who had legally altered her name from Kathleen Chang, was a familiar face to many students. She had spent time on campus displaying flags and distributing literature about her “Transformation Party” and her thoughts on government and morality. Unfortunately, the only transformation that occurred as a result of this tragedy was the one from flesh to ashes. — Laura Mandel
IT'S ALL DOWNHILL AFTER THE DP Imagine this. Our esteemed campus newspaper used to be run by one of the biggest frauds in the history of journalism. Stephen Glass, C’94, the young reporter who is now notorious for having spun a web of falsities and fabrications while working as a professional journalist, was the one-time head honcho of the Daily Pennsylvanian. Thanks to his work ethic and writing skills, Glass managed to rise to the rank of executive editor of the publication in 1993. The story that led to his downfall, called “Hack Heaven,” was an intriguing tale of a young computer hacker who had been hired by a large company as an information security consultant. Editors at The New Republic, where Glass had been employed, later discovered that a majority of the stories he had written for the magazine contained some amount of fabricated material. Glass became the subject of intense media scrutiny after his deception was revealed to the public. His story was even immortalized in the 2003 movie Shattered Glass, starring Hayden Christensen as Glass. But at the core of this twisted tale is just another insecure Penn boy seeking validation from his peers and potential employers. “I wanted them to think I was a good journalist, a good person,” he told Steve Kroft of 60 Minutes during a 2003 interview. “I wanted them to love the story so they would love me.” — Laura Mandel
ON PENN AND PATRIOTISM (OR LACK THEREOF) While Penn founder Ben Franklin was the consummate patriot, the University’s support for the American Revolution was more dubious. Just as Provost Ron Daniels is defecting to Johns Hopkins this spring, the first provost of Penn, Reverend William Smith, pledged allegiance to King George IV as tension between colonial America and England heightened after the Stamp Act of 1765. Believing stability to be in Penn’s best interest, Smith wrote essays calling for “caution” in colonial action, earning himself the label of Loyalist, according to the University Archives. His status as an Anglican priest, which tied him to the Church of England, can partly explain his decision to support the powers across the Pond. It remains unclear if his political choice served Penn, but there is no doubt that it damaged his own career: the post-Revolution Pennsylvania government passed over Smith when choosing officials to lead the newly renamed University of the State of Pennsylvania. Good riddance. — Kerry Golds
ICA: INSTITUTE OF CONTEMPORARY ANARCHY The 1960s offered young people plenty of reasons to riot, from the war in Vietnam to the fight for civil rights. But in the fall of 1965, Penn students could add a more obscure provocation to that list: Campbell soups cans. Andy Warhol’s visit to Penn on Oct. 7 of that year produced a full-fledged melee, as enormous crowds of both fans and skeptics converged on the Institute of Contemporary Art, home to the pop artist’s first major museum showing. By an hour after the exhibit opened, over a thousand people — not all of whom were students — had crammed into the gallery and refused to budge, according to an article from The Village Voice newspaper. Warhol and his entourage were “engulfed in a sickening crush” so intense that three museum-goers were forced out of a window and ended up in the hospital. Warhol eventually managed to flee through an exit to the roof, but was first trapped on a balcony for an hour after attempting to escape through a stairway that turned out to be boarded up. As he sat there, some students passed up soup cans for him to autograph, while others picketed outside the ICA, holding signs proclaiming “Pop art is just comedy in art.” Ironically, a chaotic preview event the day before had already convinced the gallery’s director to take down Warhol’s paintings as a precaution. So, as The Philadelphia Inquirer wrote in a 1988 article looking back on the incident, “the frenzy the next night — the chanting, the crush of thousands of people, the police, the firemen, the miraculous escape through the ceiling — all took place at an art opening with no art.” — Inna Lifshin
