roommate took great objection. Finally, though, I learned that the university had an honors dorm, and much to my delight my grades were good enough to get me in. Honors-dorm residents were eligible for certain coveted privileges—namely, that guys could come up for a visit. And before too long the idea of transferring to William and Mary after a year faded into nostalgia. In the haze of my memory, the rest of my freshman year at Bama is like one long evening spent lighting candles and playing Phoebe Snow, and in my more thoughtful moments wondering gleefully, How on earth did I get here?
I chose the University of Alabama largely on the recommendation of my high school art teacher, Mrs. Gilder, who had gone there herself. I had been serious about art since the seventh grade, when I was selected to take advanced painting and drawing classes. There’s nothing like a dose of unsolicited approval to get a young girl motivated; I decided right then that I wanted to be a painter.
When I first arrived in Tuscaloosa, the art program was my primary focus. As far as I was concerned, the old buildings where the art classes were held—small French Quarterlike structures sheathed in wrought-iron filigree, and centered around lush courtyards—were the closest I was ever going to get to the ateliers of the nineteenth-century French Impressionists whose work I so loved. The air was fragrant with the heady smells of turpentine and paint, and I sailed through my classes in art history and figure drawing, carried along by gushing enthusiasm for the world of beauty that was opening up to me. The greater part of it was sheer excitement over painting itself, and the discovery of new artists (who may have been Old Masters, but were still new to me). But part of the enchantment of those days was meeting other people who shared my sensibilities and interests. For the first time, I began to believe that I wasn’t such a square peg after all. Not only was I discovering and deepening my passion for art, I was making friends with young people who were a lot like me, many of them from small Southern towns, too.
For me, the intellectual and social thrill of all this was beyond anything I could have anticipated—though I realize now, with affection, that when it came to art, Tuscaloosa in the 1970s wasn’t exactly fin de siècle Paris. But it felt that way to me back then, and it may have been all I could have withstood at the time. For in some meaningful ways—more meaningful than I knew at the time—the trip from Meridian to Tuscaloosa wasn’t much of a trip at all.
In truth, the school I’d chosen was an extension of home. I wouldn’t have any of my childhood beliefs challenged in a serious way at Alabama, as I might have at a Northern school. Of course, I was never going to be the stereotypical alienated artist, filled with contempt and disdain for tradition or commerciality. As engaged as I was by my art classes, the locus of my social life at the university was an institution designed to ensure the carrying on of traditions of all kinds: the Greek fraternity and sorority system.
Southerners treasure the clubbiness of the Greek lifestyle, the sense of importance given to social ritual—and it shows. Whether it’s at Ole Miss, LSU, the University of Georgia, or Alabama, one of the most glorious sights on any Southern campus is the array of grand old homes that house the fraternities and sororities. And no block in Beverly Hills is as grand as Alabama’s Sorority Row, a string of residences that can only be described as plantation homes without the plantation. The stately grandeur of these homes, and the effort made to keep them in decent repair despite the wear and tear of decades of student use and abuse, is a testament to their enduring memory in the hearts of the Greek alums who populate the upper reaches of Southern social and economic life.
When I left for college, I made sure to get there in time for rush, that short,
I chose the University of Alabama largely on the recommendation of my high school art teacher, Mrs. Gilder, who had gone there herself. I had been serious about art since the seventh grade, when I was selected to take advanced painting and drawing classes. There’s nothing like a dose of unsolicited approval to get a young girl motivated; I decided right then that I wanted to be a painter.
When I first arrived in Tuscaloosa, the art program was my primary focus. As far as I was concerned, the old buildings where the art classes were held—small French Quarterlike structures sheathed in wrought-iron filigree, and centered around lush courtyards—were the closest I was ever going to get to the ateliers of the nineteenth-century French Impressionists whose work I so loved. The air was fragrant with the heady smells of turpentine and paint, and I sailed through my classes in art history and figure drawing, carried along by gushing enthusiasm for the world of beauty that was opening up to me. The greater part of it was sheer excitement over painting itself, and the discovery of new artists (who may have been Old Masters, but were still new to me). But part of the enchantment of those days was meeting other people who shared my sensibilities and interests. For the first time, I began to believe that I wasn’t such a square peg after all. Not only was I discovering and deepening my passion for art, I was making friends with young people who were a lot like me, many of them from small Southern towns, too.
For me, the intellectual and social thrill of all this was beyond anything I could have anticipated—though I realize now, with affection, that when it came to art, Tuscaloosa in the 1970s wasn’t exactly fin de siècle Paris. But it felt that way to me back then, and it may have been all I could have withstood at the time. For in some meaningful ways—more meaningful than I knew at the time—the trip from Meridian to Tuscaloosa wasn’t much of a trip at all.
In truth, the school I’d chosen was an extension of home. I wouldn’t have any of my childhood beliefs challenged in a serious way at Alabama, as I might have at a Northern school. Of course, I was never going to be the stereotypical alienated artist, filled with contempt and disdain for tradition or commerciality. As engaged as I was by my art classes, the locus of my social life at the university was an institution designed to ensure the carrying on of traditions of all kinds: the Greek fraternity and sorority system.
Southerners treasure the clubbiness of the Greek lifestyle, the sense of importance given to social ritual—and it shows. Whether it’s at Ole Miss, LSU, the University of Georgia, or Alabama, one of the most glorious sights on any Southern campus is the array of grand old homes that house the fraternities and sororities. And no block in Beverly Hills is as grand as Alabama’s Sorority Row, a string of residences that can only be described as plantation homes without the plantation. The stately grandeur of these homes, and the effort made to keep them in decent repair despite the wear and tear of decades of student use and abuse, is a testament to their enduring memory in the hearts of the Greek alums who populate the upper reaches of Southern social and economic life.
When I left for college, I made sure to get there in time for rush, that short,
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