There’s a room in Miriam Hall, the first room. However, it’s not really a room, it has none of the things you’d expect of a room. Well, it has walls, a floor, ceiling and windows, doors, chairs, tables, and a carpet rug. But it’s not homey, safe, warm, or cozy. Rather, it is warm, but only by temperature standards, not by atmosphere, and even then only when the bright August sun shines through the towering windows. No. It’s not a room, it’s an oversized entryway or a small lobby; a gathering space at best and a waiting room at worst. It’s a space whose only purpose is to house those left temporarily without purpose by a gap in their schedule. A schedule they themselves set but a schedule chosen by the order of the machine. The same machine that arranged for this room which they are temporarily housed in.
So, there’s a room in Miriam Hall. Rather, there’s a void in Miriam Hall which masquerades as a room. Just as a man from some dirty street corner becomes a dashing prince who glides across a paved stone square from one enchanting beauty to the next until he must once again return to the dirty street corner as just a man, so too does the void in Miriam Hall, the first void, pose as a room. A room that’s warm and longing to be swelled by the conversation of cheery youth. At its best this space can manage to hold the true countenance of a room for a little while, escape the void and thus allow its dour occupants to enjoy equal escape. And in those moments, few and short as they may be, the space feels as grand as some golden leafed ballroom in the wings of Versailles and surges with the sweet song of laughter as some famous soprano who floods an opera house with her arias. But just as no opera continues indefinitely, and as ballrooms quiet while noble dames and dukes return to their dark homes from the magnificence of the ball; so too does the room in Miriam Hall, the first room, inevitably sink back into the void and drag down with it all those who were so elated.
Alternatively, it could be thought of as a fishbowl, and everyone inside is just swimming. Like a fish in a bowl on your counter that never gets anywhere but is always swimming. Why? Because at the end of the day, there’s nowhere to swim to. So this place is a bowl, and we’re fish, and campus is the counter. If that’s the case though, who are the people? Who is there to feed us and clean our tank? That would be the professors or possibly our parents. The profs feed us knowledge and just as you don’t know if your fish actually likes the food you feed it, who knows if we are really interested in the knowledge those professor’s impart to us. If it’s our parents, they give us cash which keeps us alive in its own way. But that only goes so far and we end up swimming and swimming, always swimming but never getting anywhere. Then fall or spring break rolls around and we get pulled out of the bowl and put in a shiny cup for a few days while the bowl gets cleaned. We come back with just enough energy and excitement to keep swimming nowhere until the next break or the next summer. In summer we’re given over to a little cousin to care for us for a while. At first it’s exhilarating to be in a different bowl on a different counter. Different things to see every day, different food, a change of pace. Eventually though, the little cousin forgets about us and stops feeding us. So, starved of food and friends we long to be back in our fishbowl Miriam Hall. This cycle repeats until the best we could hope for comes, the day we graduate from the bowl. In the worst case we’re found floating upside down at the top of the water, deadened by the anxiety of leaving this place we’ve known for 4 years. If we do make it to graduation we’re simply dropped in the ocean where we get eaten by a bigger fish or wind up part of a huge school with no direction which is driven by dolphins this way or that and slowly picked off one by one. There must though be some fish who go on to thrive in the ocean once they’ve outgrown the fishbowl and graduated. They must find some anemone to keep them safe. Some place where they can start a family and provide for that family. What more can we ask, after-all, we’ve already had the fishbowl and left it.
So, there’s a room in Miriam Hall. Rather, there’s a void in Miriam Hall which masquerades as a room. Just as a man from some dirty street corner becomes a dashing prince who glides across a paved stone square from one enchanting beauty to the next until he must once again return to the dirty street corner as just a man, so too does the void in Miriam Hall, the first void, pose as a room. A room that’s warm and longing to be swelled by the conversation of cheery youth. At its best this space can manage to hold the true countenance of a room for a little while, escape the void and thus allow its dour occupants to enjoy equal escape. And in those moments, few and short as they may be, the space feels as grand as some golden leafed ballroom in the wings of Versailles and surges with the sweet song of laughter as some famous soprano who floods an opera house with her arias. But just as no opera continues indefinitely, and as ballrooms quiet while noble dames and dukes return to their dark homes from the magnificence of the ball; so too does the room in Miriam Hall, the first room, inevitably sink back into the void and drag down with it all those who were so elated.
Alternatively, it could be thought of as a fishbowl, and everyone inside is just swimming. Like a fish in a bowl on your counter that never gets anywhere but is always swimming. Why? Because at the end of the day, there’s nowhere to swim to. So this place is a bowl, and we’re fish, and campus is the counter. If that’s the case though, who are the people? Who is there to feed us and clean our tank? That would be the professors or possibly our parents. The profs feed us knowledge and just as you don’t know if your fish actually likes the food you feed it, who knows if we are really interested in the knowledge those professor’s impart to us. If it’s our parents, they give us cash which keeps us alive in its own way. But that only goes so far and we end up swimming and swimming, always swimming but never getting anywhere. Then fall or spring break rolls around and we get pulled out of the bowl and put in a shiny cup for a few days while the bowl gets cleaned. We come back with just enough energy and excitement to keep swimming nowhere until the next break or the next summer. In summer we’re given over to a little cousin to care for us for a while. At first it’s exhilarating to be in a different bowl on a different counter. Different things to see every day, different food, a change of pace. Eventually though, the little cousin forgets about us and stops feeding us. So, starved of food and friends we long to be back in our fishbowl Miriam Hall. This cycle repeats until the best we could hope for comes, the day we graduate from the bowl. In the worst case we’re found floating upside down at the top of the water, deadened by the anxiety of leaving this place we’ve known for 4 years. If we do make it to graduation we’re simply dropped in the ocean where we get eaten by a bigger fish or wind up part of a huge school with no direction which is driven by dolphins this way or that and slowly picked off one by one. There must though be some fish who go on to thrive in the ocean once they’ve outgrown the fishbowl and graduated. They must find some anemone to keep them safe. Some place where they can start a family and provide for that family. What more can we ask, after-all, we’ve already had the fishbowl and left it.
