A Shotgun Wedding

It's 1880, and Cambridge is celebrating its 250th birthday. Schoolchildren gather early in Harvard's Sanders Theater, where two Harvard professors--Oliver Wendell Holmes and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow--entertain their young audience. In the afternoon, the adults crowd into Sanders: Harvard's President Charles Eliot begins the program by calling Cambridge "a famous town, an historic town, and, what is more, a town which is perfectly sure to be dear to English-speaking peoples for generations to come." Cambridge mayor James W. Hall returns the compliment: "It is especially fitting we meet here today, having for our host an institution which, since the beginning of its history, has been so largely identified with the civil, intellectual and religious welfare of our land."

It's 1980, and Cambridge is celebrating its 350th birthday. Things are a little less academic this time around--more parades, fireworks and historical reenactments, and fewer speeches. And there's another difference. Harvard plays little part in the proceedings. Though the parade reviewing stand attracts Speaker of the House Thomas P. O'Neill, it can't lure Derek Bok. And every city politician duly notes that Walter Milne. MIT's community relations director, walks the entire parade route, his smile a little forced, perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Harvard's relations with the city during the last few years have featured many such scenes, Viewed by its neighbors as terminally aloof, the University has managed to arouse ire and indignation at every turn, and virtually every move has precipitated a battle with city politicians. Harvard has won almost every one of those battles; since its founding, the University has been protected by statute and tradition from city regulation, and while it has occasionally had to outwait angry residents, it has rarely bent to their demands.

The end of that era may be only weeks away. A single piece of legislation, coupled with a new aggressiveness on the part of the University's foes, may soon combine to subordinate Harvard to City Hall. And that, in turn, may change the University's aloofness to neighborliness, a little forced, perhaps, but there nonetheless. The city council is expected to vote, before its summer recess, in favor of a bill that will prohibit the growth of Harvard and other non-profit institutions into residential neighborhoods without special--and very hard to obtain--permission. Under the new law, the Cambridge Community Development department says, "institutional growth would not be completely prohibited...but would be substantially limited."

Last year, Harvard did not officially oppose state legislation that enabled the city council to consider the anti-expansion ordinance, though it did send a representative to testify in opposition at a committee hearing. And the University has said several times since that it will not suffer if the new law is passed by the council. "We have always abided by zoning regulations." Robin Schmidt, Harvard's vicepresident for government and community relations, said last year. But the message may have begun to sink in that the city aims to do more than merely include Harvard in its zoning, that instead it hopes to all but end the University's growth, Schmidt's assistant, Louis Armistead, said two weeks ago that Harvard would present a list of objections in written form to the council and planning board hearings on the proposed ordinance. Though he refused to specify exactly what in the draft law pains the University, Harvard officials have complained privately about the strict "institutional overlay" lines drawn around heavy concentrations of University use, outside of which expansion will be most difficult. The lines, the officials fear, will create "psychological barriers" to any growth at all, even into non-residential neighborhoods not governed by the proposed ordinance. But for the time being, Harvard is officially mum: "I would hate to pass judgment on a piece of legislation that hasn't come up yet," Armistead said last week.

If the law is enacted, Harvard would have to go hat in hand to the city's planning board each time it wanted to build a new building or convert an existing one to institutional use in a residential neighborhood. The permits will be hard to get (in cases of highly "incompatible" uses like laboratories they will be impossible to obtain). When they are granted, it will surely be only after bargaining, and it seems likely deals will have to be struck to gain the assent of city leaders and neighbors. "I think Harvard recognizes that the era of being able to ride out the storm is over," city councilor David Sullivan, a leading voice in the outcry against University expansion, said last week. "It will no longer be able to ignore the city government."

Some observers say the change has already begun, and a comparison of two recent Harvard property deals may show the shift. One case--7 Summer Rd.--is a textbook example of what some see as the old don't give-'em-an-inch Harvard attitude; another--the development of a vacant lot on Mt. Auburn St.--may indicate a new willingness to work with and listen to the neighbors.

The saga of 7 Summer Rd. began 30 months ago, when the Graduate School of Design decided it wanted to use the four-story brick apartment building for office space. Offices were incompatible with bedrooms and kitchens, and so eviction proceedings began. The first few rulings on the hotly contested case went against the University, which had tried to remove some tenants with valid leases. But Harvard kept up the fight, despite the protests of local leaders that the building represented 16 moderately priced units of increasingly scarce rental housing. The Summer Rd. site was soon the focus of city-University conflict, "the symbol of all that Harvard is trying to do to Cambridge," in Sullivan's words. The University never ceased its campaign, and eventually, in December, won the final battle. The Rent Control Board, despite howls from tenant advocates that it was bowing to landlords, unanimously approved a University request for a "removal permit." allowing Harvard to evict the tenants.

Estimates of the aftereffects of the battle vary. "I think it was a major motivation in pushing the expansion ordinance," Sullivan said, adding that the law, if passed, "will make future 7 Sumner Roads much more difficult." And bad blood lingers, he added. "It was one of the worst defeats for tenants in the last few years. I haven't forgotten it, and I won't for a long time." Armistead, who said "the rules were changed on us in the middle of the game" by the passage of a law requiring all Cambridge developers to obtain permits before removing property from the rental market, called the two-year dispute "an honest difference of opinions." He added that the Summer Rd. experience had not irreparably soured town/gown dealings. "I think our relationship with the city is really quite good. The city has its interests and we have ours. In many cases we agree, and we disagree in others. That's the nature of the relationship."

But there are unmistakable signs that the nature of the relationship is changing, and the parking lot story is one. A little more than a year ago, the University purchased a parking lot from local developer Louis DiGiovanni. An acre of scruffy weeds, the parking lot represented one of the few remaining parcels of open space in the Square. What's more, its location next to the proposed "Parcel 1B" hotel-office-retail development made it both high-priced and sensitive. The University paid more than ever before for an undeveloped piece of land--almost $4 million--and from the beginning let everyone know it planned on recouping the investment. Its original plan was for housing, and that was good news to the neighbors, who saw the parking lot as a buffer between 1B and the adjoining upper class residential district. And the University also earned a certain amount of good will simply because it seemed a better developer than DiGiovanni, who had once proposed twin skyscrapers for the site.

At the same time, Harvard knew it would not be able to do what it pleased with the land. The outcry over past expansion made the University an immediate object of suspicion, and neighbors in Harvard Square had proved their tenacity by delaying the 1B development for years in a series of suits. And so, Harvard announced as soon as it purchased the property that the neighbors would be involved in planning for the site. Regular meetings followed, as community representatives--including Cambridge mayor Francis H. Duehay '55--were shown Graduate School of Design models for the property. A preliminary design, announced last month, includes both office space--a source of revenue for Harvard--and housing which tapers to small houses on the neighborhood edge to provide the buffer desired by the community.

"We are pleased; Harvard is making a real effort," Thomas Anninger, a community representative to the panel, said after the announcement. "They're not totally comfortable with the idea yet," Anninger added, saying that meetings between the parties will have to continue and become more frequent the groundbreaking date nears. "Harvard knows now it'll have to sit and talk with the community before taking actions that impact upon it," Sullivan said, calling the parking lot saga a good example of a "more cooperative spirit." And Armistead said the committee efforts regarding the development are "a very encouraging sort of thing...I think it is a significant move that bodes well for the future," adding that "the make-up of the committee covers lots of interests, including the city's...It might be a very good way to handle some future things."

After years of slinging political epithets against the University, then, it appears city leaders may finally be throwing a scare into Harvard, and that the University is willing to change its policies. If passed, the anti-expansion ordinance will have two effects. Sullivan predicts: It will directly limit the uses to which industrial land may be put, all but outlawing the conversion of residential housing to academic use, and "Perhaps even more significantly, it will require the University to sit and talk with community groups before taking any steps that will affect them at all, even if they are allowed under the expansion ordinance." If Harvard ignores its neighbors when it can get away with it, Sullivan reasons, it will sacrifice goodwill it may someday need to obtain a special permit. "They will have always to bear in mind how future projects might be affected if there is adverse reaction to one of their plans."

Conceivably, every issue in community-University relations could become part of the game. And there is no lack of possible flashpoints: among the most obvious is the increasingly hot question of Harvard's financial support for the city. Though it is an enormous land-owner--and though it uses city services like fire protection--Harvard pays only slightly more than $500,000 a year in lieu of taxes. (It is charged substantially more for water, sewer hook-ups, and similar services.) Politicians have grumbled about that fact for years, but in the wake of the massive tax cuts stemming from Proposition 2 1/2, their protests are getting louder, A bill filed with the state legislature this year sought to end exemptions for universities from the property tax; though it was given little chance of passage, it was enough to draw President Bok to Beacon Hill, where he argued forcefully that taxes would force the closing of dozens of private universities and send tuitions skyrocketing. He added that the University would probably not increase its in-lieu payments, even though Proposition 2 1/2 will save it thousands of dollars in taxes on its commercial property, Instead, Harvard will seek "other ways"--consulting in an attempt to attract new business to Cambridge, for example--to help the city through its fiscal crisis.

Since the chances of taxing Harvard appear slim, a panel of Cambridge citizens two months ago, urged the city to take another tack. Their suggestion was to raise the rates charged Harvard and other city institutions for water, sewer hookups, and other services. Their proposal would tack the costs of Water Department administration and a percentage of all city administration costs onto the water charge: it would raise the rate for all residents, but there would be an offsetting tax reduction for everyone but the tax-exempt universities. The proposal may not pass, for city councilors don't like to increase service charges, especially in an election year. But it shows how resourceful Cambridge officials are becoming in their ongoing struggle with the non-profit institutions that comprise such a huge chunk of their city.

Continuing dissatisfaction with other University policies may also increasingly come to the surface. Harvard, now among Cambridge's largest private landlords, faces a newly-formed tenants union, which inaugurated its organizing campaign a month ago by accusing Harvard of keeping $500,000 in tax abatements instead of passing the savings on to tenants. The tenants have also charged--and in some cases documented--waste and overspending at Harvard Real Estate (HRE), the University's real estate firm. "We plan on being around for some time to come." Michael Turk, a tenants' union organizer, said shortly after the group's formation.

Another continuing problem that may flare up is the Cambridge option plan, a low-interest mortgage subsidy provided to faculty who agree to live in the city. The mortgages contain a clause allowing Harvard to purchase the homes should owners sell them, and some city councilors have pointed out in recent weeks that, even with an expansion ordinance in place, the homes will give the University a foothold in many Cambridge neighborhoods.

For the moment, issues like these are less important to Harvard's foes than winning passage of the anti-expansion ordinance. If, as expected, the law clears the council, the rules that have always governed Cambridge's relations with its most illustrious tenant will change: after 350 years as dealer, the University will pass the cards to its neighbors and a new era may begin. Who knows--President Bok may even make the next parade