Love Thee Notre Dame

"Follow your desire as long as you live"

-Ptah Hotep, 5th Centrury BC Egypt

It was July 30, 2004 when I first drove with M into South Bend, Indiana and onto the legendary grounds of the University of Norte Dame du Lac. We were there to tour the Notre Dame campus and to meet with faculty and students of the School of Architecture. And this tour was only one part was part of a larger issue - where M would spend the next years of her life and indeed what people and events would shape her future...and ours. 

We had already toured the Universities of Yale, Cornell, Penn, Texas, Iowa State and Michigan. And as we approached South Bend on our way home from Ann Arbor, we debated whether or not to just keep driving. Ultimately though we decided to stop and complete the formality of “crossing it off of our list” - or so we had thought. But within minutes the beauty and rich tradition seemingly everywhere on campus, the feeling of goodness and sincerity emanating from the impassioned faculty and learned students and the rich curriculum of traditional architecture, watercolor presentations and the mandatory third year studio in Rome had thoroughly won her over. The University of Notre Dame had found its way back from its former position near the bottom of her shortlist of Universities to its permanent position alone at the top. And the result would be a lifetime of friends and memories not to be traded for the world. (Pictures of Campus)

And now, nearly six years later, my father and I sit silently on a bench in the shade waiting for the return of M following her ceremony of Commencement. Just minutes prior, this University attesting that M had “…so well merited as to be proclaimed publicly and solemnly Bachelor of Architecture cum laude”. The famed golden dome atop the Main Building, the world's most recognized campus landmark, gleamed above us in the sunlight in all it's glory. And I realized the usual sense of tradition intensifying and the spirits of legends stirring. And as we sat there together sharing and unspoken pride, I remembered everything…

I remembered the words she wrote to "introduced herself" to the University of Notre Dame and the School of Architecture as part of her application for admission. The letter started with a quote from a 25th Century BC ancient Egyptian scholar Ptah Hotep - "Follow your desire as long as you live." In her letter she spoke of her passion for ancient civilizations, art, art history and mathematics. And it's ending still melts my heart. I've never forgotten the words in this letter and how upon reading them I was absolutely convinced of her eminent admission to Notre Dame. I wondered if I had ever told her this. (The full text of this letter is printed at the end of this post.) And I recalled her expression of joy as she told us of the contents of her acceptance letter. And I thought about all her eager preparation that followed her commitment to attend this University.

I thought about our invitation to the annual send off reception by the Notre Dame Club of Omaha. And I remembered the apparent deep friendships that we witnesses that all seemed to have been born by sharing the common experience of attending Notre Dame albeit over the span of several generations of time. The timing didn’t seem to matter. We fully wouldn't understand this sense of loyal kinship until months later. 

I thought of the Notre Dame tradition of student assignments to dormitories as a freshman and the pride and the fraternalistic loyalty built over the three or four years that almost all students spend in their initially assigned collegate home.

I remembered the full throttle excitement of the freshman year move in to Breen-Philips dorm. The three day weekend was packed with activities - first as groups of families and then slowly progressing towards separation into groups of parents and groups of students. Thinking back this was obviously a subtle weaning process carefully orchestrated to soften the distress of parent-child separation.

I heard again the distant and nearing sounds of the marching band try outs during move in weekend. They played the Notre Dame Fight Song and other Irish favorites as they practiced marching all around campus.

I thought of our first visit to South Dining hall and its intricate stonework and wood carving and its distinctive appearance reminiscent of a medieval guild hall – think Harry Potter and the dining hall at Hogwarts.

I recalled the wonderful imagery of the springtime flowers on campus and all the fresh blooming tulips along the sidewalks. And then by contract the equally gorgeous fall colors.

I recalled memories of seeing the glimmering moonlight and the golden dome reflecting on St. Mary’s Lake as we would approach the Grotto or Bond Hall from the west at night.

I recalled walking into the Hammes Bookstore for the first time and thinking what a magnificent building it was for a campus bookstore. And I thought of the many friends from Omaha who would request shirts, or hats or mugs or other treasures from the bookstore on our various visits. Everyone, it seems, is a soft Notre Dame fan or knows a hard core one.

I thought of the astounding 95% rate of volunteerism among Notre Dame’s students. And I recalled the stories of M’s spring breaks spent on volunteer efforts – once on a home renovation for a coal mining family in the Appellation Mountains of W Virginia and once on a home construction project for a single mother in a smallish village in northern Mexico.

I recalled our family trip to Detroit to spend Thanksgiving with M and the family of one of her closest friends. And I recalled the surprise on M’s face when we produced the two stowaway dogs who had accompanied us on our lengthy car ride – later dubbed “Lexi and Dover’s Big Adventure”.

Then I turned my thoughts towards football and the excitement of walking through campus on game day amidst all the tradition of the various tailgate festivities. (Gameday pictures)

I remembered the feeling I got when I first heard the sound of bagpipes in the distance, marching in rhythm somewhere on campus.

I thought of first Irish game in Notre Dame Stadium – Notre Dame vs. Stanford and the spectacular air force flyover signaling the climax of our National Anthem.

I thought of the crazy Lepraucan mascot on the sidelines and hearing M explain how competitive it is to attain that position.

I thought of the pageantry of the Irish Guard and how for the first time ever, in M’s freshman year, a lone female made the cut in a highly competitive squad of ten 6’-2” ceremonial “body guards” to the Notre Dame marching band.

I remembered that emotional ending of every football game when the entire team gathers in front of the student section of the stands and sway together as one with the singing of Notre Dame our Mother, their Alma Mater.

I remembered the pounding rhythm of the midnight drummer circle pep rally in the dark under the Dome at the steps of the Notre Dame Administration Building and the whipped up frenzy that ensued within the gathered crowd of enthusiastic students, drummers and fans.

I thought of the ritualistic pregame gathering of the marching band on the steps of Bond Hall, home of the School of Architecture. We often would watch from the inside on the top floor. And viewing the hundreds of gathered fans and hearing the booming sounds from this unique perspective was enjoyed by only a scarce few with the correct building access privileges on their key cards. And I thought of the “parade” that followed as hundreds of joyous fans followed their marching band from Bond Hall as they traversed campus to make their way into the stadium to begin the pre-game festivities. And that memorable Fight Song.

And I remember the humbling image of the entire football team, dressed in black suits exiting their traditional pregame Mass, walking together to the stadium to dress for the game.

I was reminded of watching the 1993 movie Rudy for the first time and not knowing what a powerfully inspiring movie it was.

I thought of M’s dear friends at Carroll Hall who I grew to know so well from the few times we met and the many stories and pictures shared with us by M. She’s always called them “my boys” and by all accounts they seem to all be true lifelong friends.

I thought of the great times we had spent with M’s friends and the families of those friends during each of our many trips to South Bend over the last five years. (Pictures of visits) We felt so blessed with the opportunity to spend time with these friends over dinner at various restaurants in South Bend and Mishawaka. And I thought of the pizza at Rocco's, the Salsa at La Esperanza and the Guinness at Fiddlers Hearth – my personal favorites.

I remembered calling Fiddlers one evening from home when we knew M was there studying for finals. We secretly ordered her the most decadent desert on the menu – a brownie with ice cream and hot fudge. They delivered it to the corner table where she sat alone and told her it was from her parents.

I thought of the M’s favorite coffee shops – Café Poche in the basement of Bond Hall, Chicory Café in South Bend and Lula’s Café near campus. And then I thought of the coffee of Rome.

I thought of the treasure of M’s two concurrent semesters of classical architectural study in Rome and all the memories of friends and travels shared with her family. (Pictures from Roma)

I remembered my trip alone to Rome to spend a week with M in October 2007. I still remember the oddity of so much free time alone to explore the City. I’d wake early each morning to meet M for Espresso and walk her to studio in the cool October morning air. Then I’d be off to wherever, each day in a different direction, to see, hear, touch, taste and smell all the history that is Rome. And in the evening, we would meet for dinner, wine and stories of our day. That was a great week!

I remember the thrill of walking with M into the Pantheon for the first time and, standing at the center looking up at the open sky, I wondered aloud how anyone could have possibly managed to create such a marvelous space.

I recalled discovering again Bramante’s Tempieto thirty years after first seeing this wonderfully secluded little martyrium in the courtyard of San Pietro in Montorio on Rome’s Janiculum Hill.

Then I thought of December when Denise and I had assembled all of our daughters and J’s (future) fiancé together in Italy. We spent most of two weeks in Rome, Pisa, Sienna, Montalcino and Venice. And when Denise and the others returned home, I stayed with M for another week to ensure the continuity of Christmas with family.

I recalled the joy of the Christmas season in Austria and our travels together through the decorated streets of Salzburg and Vienna. I can still feel the excitement of seeing the gently falling snow, visible through the darkness against the dim streetlights on Christmas Eve. We walked through Vienna in this majestic snow to attend a Mozart Concerto. And I remember the excitement of Christmas morning and our makeshift stockings on the fireplace in our Hotel. And later we made our way to the Hofburg Imperial Palace in Vienna and enjoyed the angelic music of the Wiener Sängerknaben (Vienna Boys Choir) during their Christmas morning Mass.

I thought of my reunion with an old friend, currently living in Prague, who I’d not seen or heard from since my (our) study abroad days in London twenty-five years prior. And the irony of sharing this thrill on Christmas day together with M as part of her own experience of study abroad.

I recalled the enlistment of one of M’s friends to post an announcement on their studio door on M’s birthday. The announcement was a collage of several pictures that I had of M eating gelato in front of her favorite gelateria and invited everyone to Gelateria Giolitti near the Pantheon - arguably the best gelato in Rome for a special birthday treat. Remarkably this treat was enjoyed by most of her classmates.

I thought about M’s early return from her European tour following her year in Rome so she could attend the Commencement ceremony of her boys from Carroll Hall. The Commencement speaker was the President of the United States – a longstanding tradition for the first year of the first term for each president (except Clinton) since Dwight Eisenhower.

I remembered the stories of her many talks with several Decons at Seminary in Rome and the comfort provided to a student far from home and to her parents far away. And I tried again to image her competitive side glowing once again on the basketball court as she was invited to join these Decons in their Thursday night league at some gym in the Vatican City. And then I thought of the emotional Ordinations for two of these fine Deacons that we were blessed to have attended, first for Father Joe Freedy in Pittsburgh and then for Father David Kutner in Spokane. I'm still amaized and touched by the stories of M's gifts of art and self and faith to each of these new priests - "Young St. Joseph" to Fr. Joe and "Faith in a Tea Pot" to Fr. David.

I thought of M’s challenge to me to join her and her 48 classmates to study, enroll and pass the U.S. Green Building Council’s examination as a LEED Accredited Professional before they graduated. Through great effort amidst the “normal” grueling academic routine, M became the first female student and third overall to pass….and so too did I.

I remembered hearing about M’s summertime trip to Los Angeles to tour and meet with residents and community leaders in the area of Chinatown in preparation for a semester long design project. Their task was to create a more natural transition between the urban cultures of Chinatown and an adjacent Hispanic district.

I thought about M’s efforts together with many of her classmates to raise funds and organize themselves to in an effort to design and construct a grade school in Uganda. And the culmination of these efforts was for her to accompany a contingent of six students as they were dispatched to Uganda for three weeks to assist in the commencement of work to build the school.

I remembered M’s telling of countless 24/7s spent holed up in Bond Hall toiling on design projects and of her many bleary-eyes treks from Bond Hall to Starbucks in the nearby LaFortune Hall. And how on one such trip, upon stepping outside, she was immediately approached by a giggling gaggle of young high school girls on a campus sponsored tour that included a photographic scavenger hunt. In sadistic recognition of their reclusive nature during the last several weeks of the semester, the bonus prize for their scavenging adventure was to attempt to gain a photograph of themselves outside with an Architecture student. M playfully obliged. “They were lucky to catch me outside” she had said.

I thought of M’s recent Confirmation into the Catholic faith at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame. It was a glorious ceremony that was attended by Denise and I and so many of M’s dearest friends.

I thought of M’s thesis work to save and transform a dying mall (Crossroads) in Omaha. Several months into her research this same mall became the topic of many news articles regarding the revelation of its Owner’s loan default, its sale at auction and much speculation about its future use.

I thought of the many motivational cards we had sent to M near the end of every semester as all the various academic deadlines crushed down upon the same few hours of the last few days. And I recalled the final card sent to her and a dozen or so of her friends that we had grown to know and respect over the years. As they all approached the grips of final exams, the crunch of thesis completion, the cold reality of job seeking and the prospect of graduation and leaving this place that they called home, our card read “Now is the time for Guts and Grace”. Remarkably, a couple of hours later I would hear their class Valedictorian recite her speech to the outgoing Class of 2010 entitled “Guts and Grace” - inspired by our card to her.

I remembered the arrival today at Commencement of the students from the School of architecture and their traditional gown, stole and mortar board cap and tassel precariously surmounted by a hand-sculpted scale model of a building of certain importance to each graduate. M’s model was her studio building in Rome. (Pictures of Graduation week)

I thought of the stirring volunteer send-off ceremony in front of a standing room only crowd at the DeBartolo Performing Arts Center where the many students, including M, who had devoted the next year of their lives to mission work, stood at the podium to voice their intentions and were individually honored and sent forth with much respect and countless prayers.

And I thought about M’s earned Diploma and all of the years of continuous dedication, courage, sacrifice and empathy (Guts and Grace) that it represents.

Then I saw her approach, walking and laughing with a friend. I’d seen this image many times before although not under these circumstances and perhaps not so overwhelmed with this gathering sense of adulation. I remained seated there in the shade and watched with a full heart as she approached. And I thought about how indescribably proud I am to know her like a friend and to have her and to love her as a daughter. Amen.

ND Application reprinted in part...

25 October 2004 

Personal Statement - An introduction of myself to the University of Notre Dame and the School of Architecure.

by M West, Senior MNHS

"Follow your desire as long as you live.”

-Ptah-Hotep

In elementary school, I dreamed of being an archeologist. I was captivated with Ancient Egypt, and the mysteries of sites such as the Great Pyramid at Giza. I later became fascinated with other ancient civilizations including the Mayan and Aztec empires of Latin America. In high school, I have become equally passionate about my artistic and mathematical studies. This interest in history and my love for art and math has inspired me to follow Ptah-Hotep’s words, and pursue the study of architecture.

My love for art blossomed when my sophomore art class began to study and imitate major historical periods of art. This awakened me to the critical and contextual layers hidden beneath the surface of visual art. With this new found depth, the sensations I could portray through my work struck deeper. I could create things visually which surpassed words, and conveyed emotions, allowing me to connect with others through my art. I am currently welding sheets of copper and stainless steel into a fountain. This sculpture resembles a heart, and has the central theme that love transcends life. My inspiration for this piece was found while volunteering at the Make-A-Wish Foundation. My fountain also reveals my desire for challenges. I had never worked with metals before, and am currently learning the techniques of welding outside of class.

In contrast, I enjoy the challenge and beauty in my advanced mathematics courses. I love the fact that on the surface, math is studied and practiced with a set process and a series of steps. But beneath this plane, lies an intriguing mix of patterns and logical connections that are complex yet elegant. For instance, last year my class spent a day investigating the flocking patterns of birds and schools of fish. These migrations of self-organization are explained by the underlying principles of chaos theory. The animals follow simple guidelines about their relation to one another, but they produce highly complex behaviors within flocks.

These two disciplines, art and math, can easily be seen as opposites, yet I have found connections. My Extended Essay for my International Baccalaureate Diploma explores the mathematical underpinnings in the composition and symbolism of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, and Salvador Dalì’s The Sacrament of the Last Supper. I also see art and math as complimentary in my chosen field of interest. I am drawn to architecture for its fusion of aesthetic principles with the logical reality of mathematics. Architecture empowers the design elements of art to withstand the physical laws of nature, while also improving the welfare of the society for which it is designed. My interest in architecture also stems from my father, an Architect. I enjoy seeing his drawings, visiting his firm; absorbing the combination of abstract thoughts and concrete details. I hope to merge my interests in art and math to find my own balance of passionate expression, as I have witnessed from the desk next to my father’s for years.

-M West  

Alone at the Catacombs

It’s Tuesday and business travel has carried me away alone to Spokane, Washington. While I'd much prefer to travel with Denise or with one of our daughters, today’s Tuesdayness and my hunger (thirst really) has drawn me back to my favorite Washington pub – The Catacombs Pub in downtown Spokane. And I momentarily forget my solitude.

Entering the building, I descend the stairs and take a seat within what was once the boiler room of the historic Montvale Hotel. This looks to be a gem of a building and it was built to house an influx of silver miners in 1899. As their menu explains, “Coal was brought into the building through the coal chute, which is now the “cave” seating area on the pub's east end. The coal was then shoveled into the boiler, which was located where the brick oven now stands.” The Montvale Building is listed on both the Spokane and National Registers of Historic Places and remains as Spokane's oldest standing hotel building.

I was greeted by Casey, my waiter and consumed little time ordering my standard Tuesday fare - a pint of Guinness. As he scurried away to satisfy my request, I settled in to enjoy my time in this place.

I was introduced to the Catacombs Pub in December 2009 by Fr. David Kuttner (St. Thomas More Parish, Spokane). I treasured our dinner and fellowship of that evening and I trust that this place will live on as one of my favorites. And tonight as I sit here alone, I’m torn between a desire for Fr. David’s company and the pleasure of being in this incredible space alone. While dining alone is usually uncomfortable to me, I find it oddly enjoyable when my “companion” is a wonderful space such as this filled with its rich history. Seldom have I felt this outside of Europe.

Alone, I’m free to soak in the ambiance and to dream. Alone I notice. I notice the soft wearing of the wood plank flooring and the subtle creaking of footfall by busy staff. I notice the roughness of the century old brick and mortar walls and their contrast with the much weightier rough basalt stone masonry. Upon further notice I realize the utilitarian purposes of the material selection. The larger stone forms the exterior bearing walls of the grand Hotel above while the smaller brick serves only as interior partitions – curious but noticeable with time. I see the detail of inlayed wood lintels serving to lend form to shallow arched openings within the brick. I notice the spanning rough timber ceiling structure that once served as the Hotel lobby floor above. I notice the soft lighting, the flickering candles the massive stone hearth, the hanging tapestries. And I notice the people.

There’s the late 20’s date couple near me. Barely audible in their cozy corner, I surmise them to be alone in the place and in the moment and alone unto themselves. Further away there’s a threesome occupying the table where Fr. David and I had enjoyed such rich conversation on that snowy December night. I observe them to be in their mid-thirties. They’re a couple and a single mother - old friends reacquainting after much time and change. Then in the distance I hear the office group seated in the former coal chute. They are enjoying their own company and exhibit frequent outbursts of laughter. The place is alive.

Casey is busy but stealthfully mindful. He allows me my space and time and yet I catch his quiet glance. He’s watching my Guinness, surreptitiously waiting for my moment of need. My last sip gains his full attention and another pint is certain. Sadly I watch Casey as he pulls my Guinness from the tap – full pour, no rest, immediate delivery. He must be a Stalla drinker.

I beg a recommendation for dinner and Casey suggests the barbeque chicken flatbread pizza. It’s declared to be “cooked to perfection in their wood burning stone hearth oven and it’s complete with mozzarella, red onions, parmesan cheese, roasted chicken and a zesty barbeque sauce.” I ask if that’s his favorite thing and he volunteers “I always add basil, thin sliced apples and feta cheese. My only reply: “Hold the feta”.

I grab a paper napkin, uncap my pen and begin to write about my experience of this evening. And as I write, the lights dim, the space closes in and the voices muffle.

Later, as I’m working on my pizza, I motion to Casey.

“Nice call on the apples Casey”.

“You like it?” he says.

“It’s perfect.”

“Another Guinness?”

“Sure Casey, thanks.”