Last week, I learned the 126 year-old private college in my hometown was closed. There were a fair number of national news articles noting why the decision was made. Less on the reasons of how the college found itself in poor financial-straits. Actually, I didn’t need to know all of the details to understand the powerful impact or grieve the loss of this place.
There are the obvious consequences: uncertainty for current students (about 600) and loss of jobs for faculty and staff (130). In a town of approximately 7,500 people, this has some significance—fiscally to the tune of about $27 million annually. There are the physical assets now vacant.
But what about all of the personal connections people had to the college and thereby to the community? My own connections. It was my parents’ alma mater. It was where I took swimming lessons, used the reference library, and saw plays on a thrust-stage (modeled after the Guthrie, of course). As a child, I saw the Queen of Denmark on her 1976 visit and Victor Borge—in person doing his “punctuation” that most kids only saw on Sesame Street. These memories reminded me of how a place was a powerful part of what made me who I am.
I don’t live there anymore, but I can grieve for the community and the uncertainty the loss of the college will create. I now find myself living in a neighborhood where issues of place are also uncertain. A new pending light rail line will determine the future of this place for years to come, and yes, it will change this place. Exactly how remains unclear, but I do know that some will celebrate, some will fight, and some will grieve because there is, and always will be, power in place.
