In My Grief I Tip Chairs

Adirondack chairs at Mills seemed the symbol of colonizers

Apr 29, 2024

My newsletter is late this week because I haven’t posted about Mills College for a while. I attended the penultimate graduation yesterday.

Today, for the first time in two years, I did not knock over an Adirondack chair. Every time I have visited campus since the takeover, this has been my peaceful, if infantile, protest against injustice.

Mills College, for those of you who don’t know, was a historic women’s college in the Bay Area that was saved by/killed by Northeastern University, depending on who’s narration you’re up on. When colorful Adirondack chairs appeared overnight in July 2022, a year after the murder, I mean merger, was announced, and a year before the date the community had been given, those who didn’t buy the “Mills is doomed” story had a violent emotional reaction. There was talk of burning Adirondack chairs (I should say joking lest those who freaked out about wheatpasted flyers have a violent emotional reaction), but I chose a more harmless outlet. I tipped chairs over every time I went to campus.

“It’s an art project,” I explained to a teacher who had undercut the resistance that was trying to save her job. “It helps dry the dew off,” she commented. (Damn, I was revolting a little too perfectly.) Here’s my art project:

generous_muse

A post shared by @generous_muse

It was a small way to deal with my grief and anger, and our collective grief and anger—I did not always act alone. There was cathartic laughter at this small act of disruption. Sometimes the kids helped out. “I could tell you’d been on campus,” said a friend who knew how I acted out, even as I worked my booty off to host optimistic gatherings.

There's a heartbreak not unlike the loss of a parent, the loss of a people, the loss of a country, that goes along with corporate takeovers. Especially in education, when you have an alma mater/mother of the soul relationship with a place where you grew, changed, were held with love, and found yourself. These chairs, a symbol of the Northeast, of colonial America, were as nauseating to those experiencing loss as they were cheerful to those co-creating the change. For all the happymouth we'd heard about the “marriage” of the two institutions (in which she took his name and her identity disappeared) and the bright future of being part of a global institution, Mills as we knew it ceased to exist. We knew it would, and we fought hard to save it.

But not hard enough. The alumnae were divided between supporting and fighting the doom narrative. The students were in shock after the isolation of the pandemic, and too focused on their own survival in the demolition of their plans (they won their lawsuit, btw) to fight, as they had historically. The forces of money were unstoppable.

Even though the campus is still there (“They’ve renovated! There’s fresh paint!”), what made Mills Mills is not. There were no Mills banners anywhere. It’s just the name now, of someone else’s school, where boys AND girls can learn STEM and get good jobs. The serene, communal oasis is now swarming with security guards and busses full of students who are just passing through for 6 months or a year. And the Humanities are gone. I wore black, but I looked hella cute. I celebrated and supported the new grads. I met the last graduating Music student and the last Art and Language teachers who no longer have programs, just intro classes.

And I ate some lunch. And I talked to people. And I invited some over for tea. And by the time I left I was feeling full, and grateful for this community of amazing, educated women with a sense of who they are and what they represent. We are still Mills. I And I realized I hadn’t tipped over any chairs.

In My Grief I Tip Chairs

Adirondack chairs at Mills seemed the symbol of colonizers

Mills is dead. Long live Mills.

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