Editor, The Tiger –

While attending to some academic business in Morton Hall in the wee hours of a recent morning, I made a dismaying discovery: two rather large pieces of College history have been, or are in the process of being, irrevocably altered. Upon opening the door to Morton 217, I was greeted not by the familiar long wooden table that makes that classroom so distinctive, but by a precarious-looking plastic substitute, and found the original table’s sections stacked atop one another in the hallway. A member of the Buildings and Grounds staff on duty at the time was kind enough to respond to my inquiries, informing me that the top of this particular table had been temporarily removed for refinishing, and that the similar table found in Morton 119 had recently undergone a similar procedure. Fearing the worst, I went downstairs and had my suspicions immediately confirmed. While the table in 119 now gleams with still-fresh, fragrant varnish, the myriad examples of historical graffiti that had once graced its surface are now completely and totally erased.

My enquiries were not able to establish who exactly made the decision to refurbish these tables. Whoever they may be, however, I must sincerely applaud their zeal for the upkeep of College property. The goal is indeed a noble one. What I choose to publicly lament, however, is the loss of rare, tangible links with the College’s past that have been irretrievably destroyed in the process. Those tables contained initials, messages, Greek letters and other scrawlings that had been inscribed by generations of Hampden-Sydney men, some of which appeared to date well into the previous century. Yes, some may have been vulgar, and some may have proved an eyesore, but at what point does graffiti cease to become a contemporary nuisance and enter into the realm of historical record? From the often-salacious etchings found among the ruins of Pompeii, to the French vulgarisms carved by Napoleon’s troops into the walls of Egypt’s sacred temples, to the whimsically large-nosed “Kilroy” who began appearing on European walls as American soldiers advanced toward Berlin, preserved graffiti has consistently established itself as a form of “popular” historical record—that is, a record contributed by ordinary people. What is dismissed in its own time—often rightly—as irritating doggerel becomes, with the passage of years, worthy of appreciation and even study in its own right. For evidence of the scholarly and cultural merit of graffiti, one need look no further than the featured exhibition at our own College Museum last semester, which showcased graffiti left behind on a Vietnam War transport ship.

I do not wish, by any means, to condone modern vandalism of College property for “historical” or any other purpose – far from it. The city fathers of Pompeii did not encourage scribbling on their walls, nor did Napoleon and Eisenhower order their men to leave their marks all over occupied territory; actively promoting modern defacement of our common property is counter-productive, not to mention against the rules. But in the case of the Morton tables, the damage has already been done—for certain markings it was done decades ago—so why not accept and preserve them as a unique facet of our history?

Being no expert in furniture care myself, I make no pretence of being qualified to tell a finisher how to do his job. But as a student of history, I simply wonder whether this refurbishment might have been done in such a way that enhanced the appearance of the tables without necessarily stripping away–literally–their little windows into the past. Perhaps some of the mischievous scholars who carved their names into those hearty planks have gone on to become some of the prominent politicians, jurists, physicians or titans of industry that fill so abundantly the distinguished ranks of our alumni. Now, in all likelihood, we will never know.

Dylan H. Colligan ’10

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