By Alexandra Itzi
Nothing terribly spectacular happened a week ago Thursday. I remember being sort of cold, drinking a steady stream of coffee, and blinking with rapid-fire speed at students as they whizzed by my perch in the newly relocated Writing Center.
The only thing that stands out to me was the route I chose during my drive to campus that afternoon. Instead of braking at that horrible stoplight next to Taco Box, I sped right below that traffic light and eventually made a fateful left turn by the Greyhound Arena.
It was then that I saw the Jack Williamson Liberal Arts Building in all its derelict glory.
I’m glad there isn’t much in the way of traffic on that little stretch of road because I probably would have plowed through a Prius—so low was my jaw, so wide were my eyes.
A giant, ugly fence hemmed in my beloved JWLA. A giant pile of what appeared to be discarded chairs sat like a huge, metallic funeral pyre between the street and the building itself, its behemoth mass peeking over the top of that staunch fence as if in defiance of all I held dear.
I could have wept, thrown my body down before Jack Williamson’s metallic bust. I could have thrashed among the bushes I used to lose Frisbees in. I could have crawled beneath the picnic bench, its green paint forever speckled with white gifts from our avian friends, and clutched an ancient copy of El Portal to my chest while rocking back and forth.
I wanted to, even as I coasted at a solid seven miles per hour toward the College of Business. I wanted to, but I could not. Let’s be honest, I would have gotten arrested, contracted tetanus, and/or died a comical, pointless, hilariously un-tragic death.
Instead, I created this ode to honor the building that was my home for four solid years.
JWLA, I loved your terrible tile floors, your claustrophobic elevator, and your confusing spiral staircase.
I loved the uncertainty of a sanitary bathroom experience.
I loved your odd mix of 21st century classroom set-ups just as much as I treasured the archaic and torturous chair-and-desk combos that speckled your rooms.
I loved the ominous row of English faculty offices—this in spite of the fact that it took me a couple of months to realize that they were even there.
JWLA, I loved that you were my home. We were exclusive.
I ate packed lunches on your random sofa, the one that sat below that big round window.
I loved the fact that the Writing Center was tucked into the corner of the second floor, like some sort of sacred artifact I had to discover by accident.
Your odd, barren layout forced me to be observant.
Your cavernous hallways made me paranoid of every sound after 7 p.m.
I will miss you, JWLA. I can’t bear to look upon your ruined visage any longer.
As you gradually devolve back into mortar and brick, please sink into oblivion knowing that your memory lives on not only in my heart, but also in the hearts of all students who passed through your hallowed halls.
I promise you this, JWLA: I’ll try not to enjoy myself too much when I sip coffee in the amazing new facilities next year.