Fork in the Road

A HULLABALOO has been raised and hosannas have been shouted in recent weeks, by those who concern themselves with the relationship between Harvard and Cambridge. From University public relations experts, from city officials normally bristly at the mention of the school and form neighborhood leaders, there has been much high-minded talk of a new era, an era of cooperation, of peaceful coexistence, of detente. Before long, they'll be sending AWACs back and forth.

And, indeed, there is much behind the celebration. For the first time in memory, anyone's memory, Harvard actually invited local residents to sit down with its planners around a table and work out a compromise on a proposed development. Slated for a scrubby parking lot bordering on a residential neighborhood, University Place could have sparked a nightmare battle, reminiscent of the long-running war waged over the fate of Parcel 1B. Instead, in the relatively short space of a year, plans have been drawn up, and architects have been hired. And no one has gone to court. The reason is simple: the University and the neighbors worked out a compromise. Harvard agreed to build structures the same size as those in the bordering neighborhood, the neighbors agreed to swallow their minor objections and let the project progress without years of costly delay. The discussions are now nearing completion; it is worth hoping that they will serve as a model for working out future tensions.

The hallelujahs are worth sounding, if only because they are the first in a very long time. There is, however, always a but or two. What must be discovered before true rejoicing can begin is this: Did Harvard cooperate in the University Place example because it understood its neighbors had a defensible position and believed a compromise beneficial to both was desirable? Or did it think there was no other option and, fearing years of MATEP-style legal challenges, act solely in its own interest? The question might sound niave. Of course the University--and every other large economic entity--will always act in its own interest. But Harvard may finally have perceived that its longterm continuing interest lies in good relations with those who live nearby. Or it may simply have decided that in one case expediency dictated cooperation. If the latter is true, then all the bargaining sessions and compromise plans are unimpressive. If they represent no philosophical commitment, then the next time some conflict arises, the University will return to business as usual.

Kenneth Erickson '69 is one good reason to believe that nothing much has changed in the way Harvard thinks about the community. His story began when Harvard representatives were meeting with the neighbors about University Place; in fact, his escapades on behalf of the University came after most of the precedent-setting negotiations. Erickson is a lawyer with the Boston firm of Ropes and Gray, and a part of the briefcase corps that helps Harvard deal with its tenant problems. Specifically, he had worked to secure the evictions of tenants from 7 Sumner Rd.

The next assignment for the legal staff--and in particular, Erickson--turned out to be 122 Mt. Auburn St., an apartment building located--ironically--next door to the proposed University Place development. There, Harvard was again seeking to empty a building, although this time only for long enough to renovate--and substantially raise the rents. Tenants, of course, were worried, and on May 8 they filed a complaint with city Rent Board officials accusing the University of violating city law in its attempt to rid the building of occupants. The complaint was reported in the newspapers, and so was one other fact--Harvard Tenants Union (HTU) would be holding a meeting on May 11. On the agenda for that meeting was the situation at 122 Mt. Auburn.

THE SESSION WAS HELL in the basement of the Cambridge Public Library, a block from the Yard on Broadway. In attendance were dozens of University tenants, including Kenneth Erickson, who lives at 118 Banks St. (remember that address). Since it was an open meeting there seems no reason to be too upset about Erickson's attendance. Except for this--he had been specifically sent by Harvard's Office of Government and Community Affairs to ferret out information. His report was later discussed at several Harvard meetings; and the idea of sending him had been discussed at enough length (and perhaps with enough consideration of its dubious morality) that Robin Schmidt, vice president for government and community affairs, had been given the final descision. Go ahead, he said, according to department spokesman David Rosen. Moreover, at the tenant meeting, a sign-up sheet was passed around, a single piece of yellow lined paper torn from a legal pad. The HTU, which had in mind projects such as a flea market, asked all in attendance to put down their names. And everyone did, everyone except Erickson. He put down a name, but it wasn't his own; as far as anyone can make out, his scrawl read "K. Fredrickson." And there is no question about his address, which he lists clearly as 18 Banks St. There is no 18 Banks St.

What it boils down to is this: Erickson was sent by Harvard to spy, or, if that word be too harsh, to gather information. He was not simply attending an open meeting like any other tenant, despite his protestations that he often attempts to "speak to tenants and to listen to their concerns." People just dropping by for a meeting do not disguise their names and addresses. Erickson, by the way, says on that score: "I honestly cannot remember the signature process." The whole episode stinks, and if it doesn't deeply embarrass Harvard--embarrass it enough to can Erickson, or whoever had the bright idea to send him, embarrass it enough to apologize--it is proof of something.

And this episode is not the only proof. In recent weeks, the tenants at 122 Mt. Auburn have received letters in the mail describing how they can take advantage of a "relocation service" conveniently situated in an office in the building. The man in the office helps tenants find new homes in Cambridge and thus empties the building and weakens the power of the remaining tenants who are determined to stick and fight. And the letter, signed by Harvard Real Estate (HRE) officer Lorraine Wade, went out despite a city-imposed ban on mass communications to tenants in the building. Harvard, of course, calls the mailing merely informative; it is quite aware, though of the additional pressure and insecurity each such reminder creates. That pressure is a technique HRE has used with great success in the past.

Other tenants elsewhere have claimed harassment at the hands of HRE; other apartments are rumored to have been held off the market, a sin of the first magnitude in a city with a dire housing shortage. The stories are less black and white, but it seems reasonable, surely, to believe that a University that would send a lawyer to observe a meeting of tenants is capable of a good deal worse. And that is what dampens some of the ebullience surrounding the University Place settlement. It was Schmidt, after all, who sent Erickson to the meeting. And it was Schmidt who was most involved in the University Place discussions. One must wonder.

Honorable intentions are an integral part of cooperation. Harvard managed to create enough trust with the well-heeled set on the fringes of University Place to reach a satisfactory compromise. But it shows no signs of trying to breed trust with its other neighbors. And without trust, pretty soon the talking will break down. Instead of cooperating with each other to win their goals, everyone will be suing again. True cooperation demands commitment--it appears the University has yet to make up its mind.