A Place Called Home

She's a vain old lady of the Upper West Side. Cloistered amongst old money and Ivy, with her new money and ideas, she's always been the black sheep. She's 93 years old, a little eccentric, and mostly made of stone.

Rooted on the south-east corner of 116th and Broadway, the eight-story Graduate School of Journalism, with pillars and marble and faux-gas lamps, seems to fit well with the lush, modern-Greek Columbia University campus.

But the J-School had a difficult birth, conceived as she was by a Hungarian-born media mogul whose favorite color was yellow. Joseph Pulitzer, owner of The New York World, dreamed of making journalism respectable. Nearing the end of his years, in 1892 he offered the University $2 million to establish the school - and was turned down flat.

"She's a tradeswoman, not a professional," they cried.

Finally, 14 years later after had mogul passed away, his money was grudgingly taken and this baby girl was born. Pulitzer had high hopes for his progeny, a plaque in the lobby reads of "public virtue" and "trained intelligence."

But her academic peers have always looked down on her. The school's entrance opens not to the grand central commons, but to a scrap of grass outside the undergraduate dining hall. Tucked away, an embarrassment.

She is even the butt of jokes amongst journalist, whom she was designed to teach. Far from being based on high ideals, the Boston Globe's Renee Loth said that "The guiding ideological principles of most American newsrooms are entropy, chaos, procrastination and lunch."

And, if Michael Lewis's New Republic story "J-School Ate My Brain", has any grounding in truth she is not only a black ewe, but also a black widow. Lewis wrote in 1993 of bizarre classes, including demands that a hat generate a hundred story ideas.

But things are different now. Today there is no hat, because now they use a boot.

Still, despite the sneers, despite the jibes, this airy old lady still enjoys good company. Her suitors, mostly one-year flings, still arrive in droves. Their company and their gifts, coupled with her vanity, means she's always going under the knife. Construction work is ever-present to keep up with the latest trends: radio, television, and the newfangled internet.

Yet all this architectural botox can't disguise her age. Her elevators, only one of which goes all the way up, are mirror opposites (including, infuriatingly, the placement of floor buttons). To the left: stainless steel and smart. The right: particle board and vivid graffiti smut.

The history, the ill-fit, the attempt to marry ideals and practice is best seen in the lobby. Thomas Jefferson acts as bouncer, bronzed and imperious on a five-foot pedestal planted outside the front. Inside, there's that idealistic plaque, watched over old, dignified men. Carved high into the walls are medallions showing Addison, Franklin, Delane, Greeley, Thomas and Defoe.

The centerpiece is two grand wooden semi-circles on which this lady's mission is written bold. On one, "To uphold standards of excellence in journalism;" The other, "To educate the next generation of journalists."

But amidst this history, and these lofty ideals, she is trying hard to be modern. Attached to the rear of these wooden quarter-circles are six computer screens. The monitors are blank. Their cables hang lifeless, without a socket. Disconnected.

To be fair and balanced, these are the professor's marking comments: "Let's say a frown over this disorganized, careless, data-weak piece. Your viewpoint isn't based on a floor-by-floor evaluation of the structures or an intelligent curriculum critique of the ciriculum. Giving the school sexual identity doesn't help. Facts, figures and accurate reporting, let alone the good writing ability your first piece displayed, would help."