Crossing Pulteney Street: A Theatre Review by Camille McGriff

This article appeared in the spring 2019 issue of Hobart and William Smith’s Martini, the College’s satire newspaper.

Epic Theatre Spin-Off Takes Finger Lakes by Storm

GENEVA, NY. — Unwitting theatre students at Hobart and William Smith Colleges discovered a document of great theatrical and historical importance last month, which has since debuted on the Deming Theater stage as well as in the Smith Opera House in downtown Geneva, NY—and it’s headed for Broadway. It’s Crossing Pulteney Street, the long-lost spinoff of Streetcar Named Desire that Tennessee Williams famously teased for the remainder of his life following Streetcar’s phenomenal success. 

Found cradled in the arms of an unassuming mummy deep in the archives of the Warren Hunting Smith Library, the manuscript of Crossing Pulteney Street is believed to be an authentic Tennessee Williams after a student Honors project cross-examined handwriting of mid-twentieth century playwrights, a liberal arts pursuit which that will questionably serve her in her career. Thought to be written immediately after Streetcar Named Desire debuted on Broadway on December 3, 1947, the play follows a forbidden love amongst the coordinate colleges of Hobart and William Smith. Crossing Pulteney Street follows the iconic myth all current HWS students know and love: the timeless tale of overcoming a geographic divide to unite the separate Colleges with passionate romantic relations. 

Bumping elbows in a meeting about the Coordinate system itself in the freezing winter of 1948, Sigma Phi brother Chad and bewitching, ZoomTanned William Smith woman Becky become as deeply infatuated with each other as all fraternity boys are with the Elizabeth Blackwell statue. But even though college classes and commencement were co-ed by 1948, rigid same-sex traditions kept the forlorn lovers on their respective sides of Pulteney come 9 pm, when he was relegated to Geneva Hall and she atop the William Smith Hill. Swathed in Barbour and Moncler, they’ll risk their college careers in the midst of a Geneva winter for the heat of a passionate love.

And don’t worry. Chad still screams “BECKYYYYYY!” beneath the Hirshson windows.

It’s a play as relevant as ever, with the Coordinate system itself currently questioned for its relevance in a nonbinary society. Crossing Pulteney Street takes one of Streetcar’s most prolific themes, that of women’s dependence on men, and turns it completely on its head. Gender equality (but not equality of lake views) are one of the key differences between the spin-off and the original—all thanks to the Coordinate system.

The last performance of Crossing Pulteney Street of the academic year will be held on the inauguration of Reading Days (because we are down to make it a good one) beneath the Scissors statue on Pulteney Street. Tickets available through Venmo or when tabling in Scandling. Food trucks on the Quad to follow (free meal ticket available upon completion of Sodexo dining survey). And if you can’t make it to the infamous Pulteney Street herself on May 6, be sure to find this smashing hit debuting on the Beef & Brew fireplace later that night, because 70 years later this tale is as timeless as ever.

He’s a proud Hobart Man.

She’s a strong William Smith Woman.

But to be together, they’ll be…

CROSSING PULTENEY STREET

Next performance: Monday, May 6, 2019 beneath the Scissors statue

Poem: après moi, le déluge by Camille McGriff

I wrote this poem for my Fall 2019 creative writing class, and it went on to win the First Year Writing Prize and the Alice Brandt Deeds ‘45 Creative Writing Prize.

après moi, le déluge.

His aqueous orbit is mesmerizing.

Floating up to the surface then

Submerging again.

Spines prickling

Snout twitching

Tail swishing.

In the black water of the swimming pool, he is

Hungry. He means

Business.

I am frozen, stricken as I see him 

Through shredded palmettos.

I have a choice.

Days ago

In the flashlight glow

I took a sharpie and wrote 

Three numbers dash

Two numbers dash

Four numbers

Across my collarbone.

Identification. Shoulder to

Shoulder I am a number. Then

10/29/79 across my

Stomach. A

Sequence.

Neither of us know

How we ended up 

Here, in the

Desecrated sacristy of a 

Swimming pool, and 

sitting Indian style on the 

Jagged concrete altar at its edge.

Alone. Pondering death.

I watched 

The rain

First hit

Softly 

Against the

Window.

I watched

The lights

Flicker.

if you stay, write your social security 

number on your chest,

so we can identify your body.

I was not a bloated cadaver

Floating down the

Road. I only crouched

On the roof 

On the third day of rain, 

Kicking away the

Water’s edge.

In the end it didn’t matter.

What didn’t wash away was

Looted.

How can you prove what you own?

Keep from restless drifting, like 

Tangled ribbons of fire ants

Swarming in the surge?

Eye to reptilian eye.

We were never supposed to be here.

He doesn’t belong here. Now, neither

do I.

I swing my feet in.

A tail smacks the water.

I taste snot on my lip.

Neck deep in black water.

Cicadas and frogs sing in the beating sun.

Not a soul around.

We lock eyes 

And I

Brace.