Marist College dominates West Ochoa Street like a three-story vision
of failure: It somehow failed to grasp modernity as 1960s urban renewal
gutted surrounding barrios and left the banal Tucson Convention Center
as a souvenir.

But where man stumbled, nature seems eager to engage: Today, three
corners of Marist College bear huge gray tarps, to protect them from
further crumbling under furious monsoons. Another corner is bandaged in
black plastic strips. On top, what appears to have been a triumphant
cross is reduced to a pile of stone.

Until recently, this empty old college seemed prepared to fade into
quiet dissolution. That would be a tragedy for what’s believed to be
Arizona’s sole remaining tri-story adobe, erected in 1915 by master
builder Manuel Flores, and resplendent in its flourishes of Italian
renaissance and Spanish colonial revival styles.

But architecture is only part of the story. While Marist College may
represent the peak of adobe construction, it also marks a progressive
milestone for integration at a time when segregated schools were the
status quo.

Now in its 94th year, the Marist building is getting a fresh,
long-deserved shot at resurrection. A team of history-minded
people—ranging from the Tucson Historic Preservation Foundation
and the city’s Historic Preservation Office to the Roman Catholic
Diocese—are combining to gain state and national recognition for
the building. In turn, that could help raise government funding for
restoration, which is projected to cost between $3 million and $4
million.

This process is already underway; in 2007, Marist was placed on the
Arizona Preservation Foundation’s Most Endangered Historic Places List.
Local preservationist Ken Scoville subsequently prepared a nomination
for listing as an Arizona Centennial Legacy Project. And Jennifer
Levstik of the Tucson Historic Preservation Foundation wrote a
nomination for listing on the National Register of Historic Places.
That would make the building eligible for a Save America’s Treasures
federal grant, or for direct funding from Congress.

Reasons for rescuing this relic go beyond mere structural integrity,
and into the heart of cultural dignity. “At the time that (the Marist
College) was built, people were saying that adobe architecture was
primitive, and that modern European techniques were brick and wood,”
says Levstik. “Adobe was looked down upon, because it was associated
with the Mexican-American community.”

The Marist College snubbed that notion of ethnic division, and broke
barriers as the walls went up. It was built during the tenure of Bishop
Henry Regis Granjon, a Frenchman. “But most of the Catholic population
at that time would have been Mexican, or Mexican-American,” Levstik
says. “That was the community he was reaching out to and dealing with
on a regular basis.”

The school was also deeply integrated, with African-American,
Mexican-American and Anglo students, she says. “I believe it was after
1909 that all of the schools in Tucson were segregated by race. Dunbar
School was the only one I know of in Tucson that offered any kind of
education to African-American students—except for the Marist
College. I think very few people know that it was actually integrated.
Marist was one of the few places where African-American students could
receive a quality education.

“It was a day school and a boarding school. So African-Americans,
Mexican-Americans and some Anglo students—they all lived together
and went to school together. Your economic background or your religious
affiliation didn’t really matter.”

This philosophy emanates from the Marist Brothers of the Schools, a
Catholic religious order founded by French priest Marcellin Champagnat
in 1817. The order’s original calling was to educate the impoverished
children of France, although it eventually carried this progressive
mission worldwide.

“Their goal was to provide education to children in Tucson and all
over the world who otherwise wouldn’t be able to have a quality
education,” says Levstik.

In Tucson, a magnificent edifice would soon match their lofty goals.
The Marist College is stout and robust, with a commanding, linear
forthrightness. But stern pretenses are softened by elegant
ornamentation, by the adobe underneath, and by touches such as the
oversized Atlas figures luxuriating on either side of the arcaded,
second-story entryway. Far above them, a small porch juts out like a
stiff upper lip; above that, a 6-foot-high parapet rings the broad
roof.

It operated as a school under various religious orders until 1968,
when it became offices for the Tucson Diocese. The building finally
fell vacant in 2002. Subsequent neglect—including clogged roof
scuppers that allowed water to collect, and the addition of stucco,
which disastrously held moisture inside the unfired adobe—led to
one corner collapsing after a heavy rain. Today, both western corners
bear damage beneath their tarp covers.

Jonathan Mabry is the city’s historic preservation officer. He says
the process of saving Marist College will be just as elaborate as the
building’s original design. It starts with emergency stabilization, and
retrofitting the old structure to modern, earthquake-resistant
standards. Then the first floor will be renovated, and the north, south
and perimeter walls stabilized. But that’s just the beginning. While
every step will be costly, “the initial phase could be done, and then a
tenant could complete the work to finish the interior,” he says. “So
there are several ways to slice and dice this budget.”

Getting a tenant also means certain changes—such as the
diocese relinquishing control of its building. “To receive any
government funding, whether city, county or federal, the diocese would
have to convey the building to that government entity in exchange for
the funding,” Mabry says. “And the reason is that public money cannot
be spent on privately owned property.”

It’s been suggested that the Marist College be used as office space
for nonprofit groups, or some general public function. That’s critical
to making this a downtown success story, says Demion Clinco, president
of the Tucson Historic Preservation Foundation. “It’s really exciting
to see everyone—the city of Tucson, the diocese, the
foundation—come together to find a use for this building that’s
really public. That makes it more valuable in how people view it.

The alternative is undignified decay—for a building that’s
certainly earned a bit of respect.

“The worst thing that can happen to a building is for it not to be
in use,” Clinco says. “Once it becomes vacant, you can see what
happens.”

This article appears in Oct 1-7, 2009.