I apologize I haven't written in an unfortunately long time, but alas that honeymoon stage of classes in the morning, going downtown for a couple of hours, playing soccer for an hour or two, then staying up until 3 am working on homework and watching Hulu is now over, and the unfortunate realization that the "Just Because This Is College Does Not Mean I Am Invincible" thing has slapped me in the face and homework, coffee, and sleep have become my three occupations.
But now I'm back! Well, at least for an hour or so. Actually I shouldn't even be writing now because I have a Modern East Asia paper on the Red Guards to research, however the urge to write seems to strike me at these inopportune times. For example, when I wrote "The Stacks" it chomped an hour chunk out of the countdown to my 2:15 pm Brit Lit class for which I was writing a 5 page essay on Utopia. Of course I started at 11 pm and of course I would have a horrifying encounter with the Cudahy Tomb (I mean Library, ahem) that had to be immediately documented...
But in my defense, being in the IC for long periods of time makes me notice the little things. Like, for example, the 3rd floor silent study area is not silent in the least. Typing keys are extremely loud and distracting to people who are, say, looking for distractions from reading "The Rape of the Lock" (Not that we're being specific to any one person...). Also, there are small sections of the ceiling lights that are burnt out. Ordinarily this wouldn't be something to contemplate, but because the IC is so environmentally friendly, it scares me that it is falling out of repair. How long will it take for that lightbulb to biodegrade? Will it just disintegrate in a couple of days and a blob of organic matter will fall upon some unsuspecting student? I think if they let the IC go it would probably gently decompose and turn into a lush prairie filled with indigenous Illinois plant species throughout the course of finals week. Though I would miss those big windows and comfortable chairs, I suppose a prairie is probably the most environmentally friendly study space you can get. Wouldn't be too much fun in the winter though...
Speaking of weather, the Chicago wind and I have definitely moved past the honeymoon stage. In fact we are into the sleeping in separate beds while our divorce papers are filed and the custody battle for the dog begins stage. The other day it was predicted to be 50 degrees, and to my according to my Minnesota weather scale this means: Take Advantage Of The Warm Weather By Wearing A Cute Dress Because Pretty Soon Sundress Season Will Be A Myth Of The Past. So light sundress, jacket, scarf, and leg warmers it was. At first I felt confident in my outfit choice: I bounced down the stairs of Mertz, keeping rhythm with whatever Avett Brothers tune blasted in my headphones. As I started on the sidewalk toward the el, I felt a strong breeze pushing me forward. "Well Good Morning to you too, Chicago Wind!" I happily replied in my head. Suddenly the strong breeze died down then playfully switched to blowing against me, tousling my hair in the process. "Oh you're a tricky one Mr. Wind," I thought. "But I accept your challenge!" And I bent my head and continued to the crosswalk. The walk sign flashed and I went to step off the curb. The second my foot touched the pavement, out of nowhere, that "playful" Chicago Wind begins whipping around my bare legs and created an upward gust that made my sundress billow and bubble scandalously close to exposing more than I would ever like the people who hang out on Sheridan by the McDonalds to see. Shocked, I tried to control my dress with one hand while juggling my Red Eye, thermos, and UPass in the other, and I half sprinted into the safety of the wind free CTA station.
A strange feeling came over me. I felt...abused, by weather.
Environmental abuse is usually seen as humans against nature, but this time it was the other way around. It was like the wind was one of those creepy guys at a party: they seem normal until they randomly start grinding on you when no one else is dancing. No thanks.
When did the Windy City turn so aggressive? Later, I was coming back from the post office and had a package and three letters. Right as I was about to walk into my building, I briefly let the letters I was carrying rest on top of the package and immediately they were snatched off and scattered across the quad. I bent down to pick up each letter and was nearly blown over by the relentless gusts- I felt like a teased seventh grader picking up her papers off the hallway floor as the bully stands and laughs. It seemed the wind was trying to teach me a lesson- nature is bigger and better than you. Don't forget it.
And this is only the beginning; it hasn't even snowed yet. Looks like this winter is going to be more of the dreaded climb up the hill rather than the five second sled ride down.
What about you? Had an experience with wind getting frisky? Slapping rain? Leave me a comment.
10.16.2009
Tales of a Four Hour Flight Delay
Thursday afternoon I busted outta my Brit Lit class like they were beginning demolition on Damen Hall.
I was headed home, FINALLY, after a two month hiatus and just could not wait to get to Midway Airport and be on my way back to Minnesota.
I got to the airport, zipped through security, and scanned the tv screens to determine the gate number. Flight 1323, service to MPLS/STP, Gate B2... arrives at... 10:25 pm?? Uh oh. I tentatively made my way to gate B2, willing the inevitable to not be true.
Sadly, it was.
My flight was delayed four hours.
An hour long flight? Delayed four hours?? Why Minnesota, why?! Has the land of 10,000 lakes become allergic to planes? All those years I lived in that great state, struggling to get to school in -35 degree weather because apparently that isn't grounds enough for canceling school (Thanks District 623), and now they are shutting down runways for a little freezing rain? You picked a great time to be weather cautious Minnesota, thanks a lot.
So I sighed, called home and told them the news, and put myself on the standby list. Now I had never had a flight delayed and had never had to deal with the stress of trying to get on as a standby, but let me tell you- it is NOT fun. Moving walkways became my best friend as I hopped from Gate B2 to 18 to 20 to 6 to try to hear my name being screamed by an overworked, underpaid flight attendant who has been dealing with pissy travelers all day.
Its amazing how chummy people become when stuck together in an airport. I'm all for a friendly conversation to pass the time, but some people seem to believe that this experience bonds us closer than a Saturday in detention a la Breakfast Club. I was standing in line behind an extroverted couple trying to get to Denver via Minneapolis and had waited for four flights on standby already. At first the conversation was friendly enough, Wow I can't believe how long this is taking, I thought Southwest was supposed to be dependable, Apparently there is only one runway available at the Mpls/StP, Man I'm about to get a beer and some deep dish harharhar, and other little tidbits of socially acceptable conversation. As we overheard the flight attendant explain to another customer there would be another hour added to the four hour delay we were expecting, the guy exasperatingly said, "Okay so how far is the drive to St. Paul? 7 hours? I have a free car rental at Hertz, lets all just drive up there. It will be so much easier!" His girlfriend nodded her head enthusiastically as he turned to the other member of our conversation, a middle aged woman who had been waiting for the same flight as me, and said "You weren't supposed to leave until 10:25 right?" and turning to me said "And you too? Yea I'm sure we could do that, I have the Hertz number here I bet they have a terminal right here at Midway, if we can't get on this flight I'm calling them and we're all going to drive up to the Twin Cities together!" I trained my eye contact on the pillar 90 degrees away from the desperate traveler's hungry gaze in order to separate myself from agreeing to this horror movie scenario in the making and the woman behind me paused and said, "Well lets just wait to see what the attendant has to say first..." This breath of fresh rationality seemed to break the man's neurotic obsession with the rental car plan and he said, "Oh... yea, yea. Lets do that first." Would it be rude to refuse this man's offer? I feel like he was a regular normal man before pulling out the lets-spend-8-hours-in-a-car-when-we've-known-each-other-for-10-minutes card, but does that really give him the credentials for me to trust him? Or for him to trust me for that matter- I could be a sociopathic nympho with the habit of identity theft and a penchant for knife fights, but he is so desperate to get to the Twin Cities that he would share his Hertz rental with me sans background check? People gotta travel safer these days...
Speaking of violence, I ran into another lovely fellow waiting in a different standby line about 10 minutes later. I lost Desperate Car Rental Man + Girlfriend after they scurried to the 3220 flight and I went to try my luck at an earlier departure, and so I was standing in line behind a grizzly older man and his companion. Being nosy, bored, and too lazy not to listen, I tuned into their conversation. "The best way to smoke those Pak-iss-tan-ees outta thur caves isn't ta spend all that money on special agents and whatnot, but just get a bunch of them cinnamon bommbbs and that'll suck the oxygen right outta thur- suffocate them all! Or we can jist get a big'un in there and blast the tops off all them mountains, that'll get rid of it." Um, what? I stood, jaw literally dropped, my face completely lack of any emotion besides utter astonishment that there was a person out there who was so uninformed and out of touch that he could be saying these things without a hint of sarcasm or joke. He says it would be so simple to kill these people, KILL THESE PEOPLE. PEOPLE. Real human beings, being mentally suffocated by a compassionless, crotchety old man. And then to even insinuate that the problem could be solved by blowing off the tops of mountains, therefore killing a small percentage of people who have done anything wrong in the least, and a huge percent of the innocent civilians who have lived in those mountainous regions for hundreds of years, who haven't even attempted to rebel or cause harm to the world around them even though they are suffering from poverty, malnourishment, and a barrage of violence everyday because their government is too concerned with fixing a thousand year old conflict to assist or protect them? Are you serious? Yes, sir, they are obviously the ones to blame. But that wasn't the end to his tirade, he moved to domestic issues: "And those kids down at Fenger High? I'd go in there with 50 of my men, we would have them straightened up in two weeks." And that was when I stopped listening. I'm so glad that you think the best way to stop violence is with more violence. Let's ignore the fact that these kids are living in conditions paralleled only by third world countries, or the fact that their lives are dictated by the crack dealing gangs that rule the projects and low income neighborhoods of the South Side. Obviously, they are unruly because no one has given them a good beating in awhile. I'm so glad that I have your expertise on this subject.
At this point, I was frustrated to say the least. Not only had I been invited on a road trip by complete strangers, forced to listen to the monologue of a warmonger, and eaten half of an overpriced, undercooked McDonald's burger, but I had been waiting two hours to get on a flight that was supposed to have delivered me to the Motherland Minnesota an hour previous. Finally, the flight attendant announced that she would be calling out the standbys for flight 303, and me and the 80 other frazzled, Minnesota-bound passengers crowded around the check in desk, hoping fervently that our name would be called next.
A typical middle aged midwestern man (windbreaker, baseball hat, architect glasses, nike athletic shoes) standing next to me (in typical middle aged midwestern man fashion) started a chummy conversation: "So you been waiting around long for your flight?" Me, being fresh out of my last two nightmare encounters with standby passengers, was a little short at first- who knows what this guys hidden creep trait is? But, (in typical nice wholesome midwestern girl fashion) I kept up my end of the conversation, even explaining that I went to school at Loyola and was a journalism major. As soon as I divulged those details, I felt like I may have overshared- not that my school and major are personal details but why would this guy really care? Most times when I tell people my major, they give me a small symphathetic smile and nod (insert quick montage of headlines screaming the demise of print media, while "Another One Bites The Dust" plays in the background) thinking how very noble I was to be strutting into an employment graveyard. But instead, the man suddenly seemed genuinely engaged. "Journalism? Well thats great to hear, I'm a Fellow at the Reynolds Journalism Institute at Mizzou." Ah! These are the times I wish I could pause time and look to the heavens and say "Really God? That easy? Thanks, I love when networking opportunities are literally handed to me." Unpause. We discussed schools and journalism, and he commended my choice in Loyola saying that "there is something to be said for studying journalism in the city". This, from one of the directors of one of the top undergrad journalism schools in the nation. Suggesting my school would give me an advantage over those Missouri grads. Just wonderful. He also asked my opinion on Loyola's new School of Communications facilities because they were planning a conference there for next summer, and then gave me his card saying I should contact him if I have any questions or will be around for the conference. Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe how lucky that I happened to run into this particular person at this time, and he happened to be so friendly and interested in discussing journalism- and this is why I love people from the midwest. Even when my day cannot seem to get worse, someone with a natural sense of friendliness and optimism in the world comes along, and instantly everything takes a turn for the better. Soon after he and his wife got called and boarded the plane, and I followed them fifteen minutes later.
Walking down the carpeted tunnel toward the plane my disposition was sittin' pretty. Yes, I would be getting into Minneapolis two hours late, yes, I almost became the next headline story on the local news, and yes, I think I may have discovered the next Polpot, but I was headed home and now had an in at Mizzou in case Loyola was bombed (probably by said crotchety old man) and I needed to transfer. We pulled out of the boarding area and were headed toward the runway when suddenly the plane stopped and the pilot came on the loudspeaker: "Sorry to delay your trip just a little longer folks, but it appears the secret service has shut down the Hubert Humphrey Terminal. We are waiting for clearance but it will likely be another 30 minutes." Seriously? The Secret Service? Is Minnesota so desperate to keep me out that they have employed the most powerful branch of security in the USA to delay my arrival further? Apparently Joe Biden was flying out of Minnesota, so they had shut everything in the airport down, including the ONE RUNWAY AVAILABLE. There's a great way to reach out to voters Vice Prez, trick them into thinking they are finally on their way home, then sadistically make them wait on the tarmac another 30 minutes while you Air Force One it back to Washington. Cool, executive branch, cool. However, a mere 10 minutes later, the pilot announced we were clear and finally, I was on my way home to a weekend of old friends and homecooked meals little thanks to Southwest Airlines, and no thanks to desperate traveling couples with a free Hertz rental, ornery old warmongers, and the Vice President of the United States.
All for a one hour flight.
I was headed home, FINALLY, after a two month hiatus and just could not wait to get to Midway Airport and be on my way back to Minnesota.
I got to the airport, zipped through security, and scanned the tv screens to determine the gate number. Flight 1323, service to MPLS/STP, Gate B2... arrives at... 10:25 pm?? Uh oh. I tentatively made my way to gate B2, willing the inevitable to not be true.
Sadly, it was.
My flight was delayed four hours.
An hour long flight? Delayed four hours?? Why Minnesota, why?! Has the land of 10,000 lakes become allergic to planes? All those years I lived in that great state, struggling to get to school in -35 degree weather because apparently that isn't grounds enough for canceling school (Thanks District 623), and now they are shutting down runways for a little freezing rain? You picked a great time to be weather cautious Minnesota, thanks a lot.
So I sighed, called home and told them the news, and put myself on the standby list. Now I had never had a flight delayed and had never had to deal with the stress of trying to get on as a standby, but let me tell you- it is NOT fun. Moving walkways became my best friend as I hopped from Gate B2 to 18 to 20 to 6 to try to hear my name being screamed by an overworked, underpaid flight attendant who has been dealing with pissy travelers all day.
Its amazing how chummy people become when stuck together in an airport. I'm all for a friendly conversation to pass the time, but some people seem to believe that this experience bonds us closer than a Saturday in detention a la Breakfast Club. I was standing in line behind an extroverted couple trying to get to Denver via Minneapolis and had waited for four flights on standby already. At first the conversation was friendly enough, Wow I can't believe how long this is taking, I thought Southwest was supposed to be dependable, Apparently there is only one runway available at the Mpls/StP, Man I'm about to get a beer and some deep dish harharhar, and other little tidbits of socially acceptable conversation. As we overheard the flight attendant explain to another customer there would be another hour added to the four hour delay we were expecting, the guy exasperatingly said, "Okay so how far is the drive to St. Paul? 7 hours? I have a free car rental at Hertz, lets all just drive up there. It will be so much easier!" His girlfriend nodded her head enthusiastically as he turned to the other member of our conversation, a middle aged woman who had been waiting for the same flight as me, and said "You weren't supposed to leave until 10:25 right?" and turning to me said "And you too? Yea I'm sure we could do that, I have the Hertz number here I bet they have a terminal right here at Midway, if we can't get on this flight I'm calling them and we're all going to drive up to the Twin Cities together!" I trained my eye contact on the pillar 90 degrees away from the desperate traveler's hungry gaze in order to separate myself from agreeing to this horror movie scenario in the making and the woman behind me paused and said, "Well lets just wait to see what the attendant has to say first..." This breath of fresh rationality seemed to break the man's neurotic obsession with the rental car plan and he said, "Oh... yea, yea. Lets do that first." Would it be rude to refuse this man's offer? I feel like he was a regular normal man before pulling out the lets-spend-8-hours-in-a-car-when-we've-known-each-other-for-10-minutes card, but does that really give him the credentials for me to trust him? Or for him to trust me for that matter- I could be a sociopathic nympho with the habit of identity theft and a penchant for knife fights, but he is so desperate to get to the Twin Cities that he would share his Hertz rental with me sans background check? People gotta travel safer these days...
Speaking of violence, I ran into another lovely fellow waiting in a different standby line about 10 minutes later. I lost Desperate Car Rental Man + Girlfriend after they scurried to the 3220 flight and I went to try my luck at an earlier departure, and so I was standing in line behind a grizzly older man and his companion. Being nosy, bored, and too lazy not to listen, I tuned into their conversation. "The best way to smoke those Pak-iss-tan-ees outta thur caves isn't ta spend all that money on special agents and whatnot, but just get a bunch of them cinnamon bommbbs and that'll suck the oxygen right outta thur- suffocate them all! Or we can jist get a big'un in there and blast the tops off all them mountains, that'll get rid of it." Um, what? I stood, jaw literally dropped, my face completely lack of any emotion besides utter astonishment that there was a person out there who was so uninformed and out of touch that he could be saying these things without a hint of sarcasm or joke. He says it would be so simple to kill these people, KILL THESE PEOPLE. PEOPLE. Real human beings, being mentally suffocated by a compassionless, crotchety old man. And then to even insinuate that the problem could be solved by blowing off the tops of mountains, therefore killing a small percentage of people who have done anything wrong in the least, and a huge percent of the innocent civilians who have lived in those mountainous regions for hundreds of years, who haven't even attempted to rebel or cause harm to the world around them even though they are suffering from poverty, malnourishment, and a barrage of violence everyday because their government is too concerned with fixing a thousand year old conflict to assist or protect them? Are you serious? Yes, sir, they are obviously the ones to blame. But that wasn't the end to his tirade, he moved to domestic issues: "And those kids down at Fenger High? I'd go in there with 50 of my men, we would have them straightened up in two weeks." And that was when I stopped listening. I'm so glad that you think the best way to stop violence is with more violence. Let's ignore the fact that these kids are living in conditions paralleled only by third world countries, or the fact that their lives are dictated by the crack dealing gangs that rule the projects and low income neighborhoods of the South Side. Obviously, they are unruly because no one has given them a good beating in awhile. I'm so glad that I have your expertise on this subject.
At this point, I was frustrated to say the least. Not only had I been invited on a road trip by complete strangers, forced to listen to the monologue of a warmonger, and eaten half of an overpriced, undercooked McDonald's burger, but I had been waiting two hours to get on a flight that was supposed to have delivered me to the Motherland Minnesota an hour previous. Finally, the flight attendant announced that she would be calling out the standbys for flight 303, and me and the 80 other frazzled, Minnesota-bound passengers crowded around the check in desk, hoping fervently that our name would be called next.
A typical middle aged midwestern man (windbreaker, baseball hat, architect glasses, nike athletic shoes) standing next to me (in typical middle aged midwestern man fashion) started a chummy conversation: "So you been waiting around long for your flight?" Me, being fresh out of my last two nightmare encounters with standby passengers, was a little short at first- who knows what this guys hidden creep trait is? But, (in typical nice wholesome midwestern girl fashion) I kept up my end of the conversation, even explaining that I went to school at Loyola and was a journalism major. As soon as I divulged those details, I felt like I may have overshared- not that my school and major are personal details but why would this guy really care? Most times when I tell people my major, they give me a small symphathetic smile and nod (insert quick montage of headlines screaming the demise of print media, while "Another One Bites The Dust" plays in the background) thinking how very noble I was to be strutting into an employment graveyard. But instead, the man suddenly seemed genuinely engaged. "Journalism? Well thats great to hear, I'm a Fellow at the Reynolds Journalism Institute at Mizzou." Ah! These are the times I wish I could pause time and look to the heavens and say "Really God? That easy? Thanks, I love when networking opportunities are literally handed to me." Unpause. We discussed schools and journalism, and he commended my choice in Loyola saying that "there is something to be said for studying journalism in the city". This, from one of the directors of one of the top undergrad journalism schools in the nation. Suggesting my school would give me an advantage over those Missouri grads. Just wonderful. He also asked my opinion on Loyola's new School of Communications facilities because they were planning a conference there for next summer, and then gave me his card saying I should contact him if I have any questions or will be around for the conference. Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe how lucky that I happened to run into this particular person at this time, and he happened to be so friendly and interested in discussing journalism- and this is why I love people from the midwest. Even when my day cannot seem to get worse, someone with a natural sense of friendliness and optimism in the world comes along, and instantly everything takes a turn for the better. Soon after he and his wife got called and boarded the plane, and I followed them fifteen minutes later.
Walking down the carpeted tunnel toward the plane my disposition was sittin' pretty. Yes, I would be getting into Minneapolis two hours late, yes, I almost became the next headline story on the local news, and yes, I think I may have discovered the next Polpot, but I was headed home and now had an in at Mizzou in case Loyola was bombed (probably by said crotchety old man) and I needed to transfer. We pulled out of the boarding area and were headed toward the runway when suddenly the plane stopped and the pilot came on the loudspeaker: "Sorry to delay your trip just a little longer folks, but it appears the secret service has shut down the Hubert Humphrey Terminal. We are waiting for clearance but it will likely be another 30 minutes." Seriously? The Secret Service? Is Minnesota so desperate to keep me out that they have employed the most powerful branch of security in the USA to delay my arrival further? Apparently Joe Biden was flying out of Minnesota, so they had shut everything in the airport down, including the ONE RUNWAY AVAILABLE. There's a great way to reach out to voters Vice Prez, trick them into thinking they are finally on their way home, then sadistically make them wait on the tarmac another 30 minutes while you Air Force One it back to Washington. Cool, executive branch, cool. However, a mere 10 minutes later, the pilot announced we were clear and finally, I was on my way home to a weekend of old friends and homecooked meals little thanks to Southwest Airlines, and no thanks to desperate traveling couples with a free Hertz rental, ornery old warmongers, and the Vice President of the United States.
All for a one hour flight.
9.28.2009
The Stacks
Here I am, 11:00 pm on a Monday night, out of breath, heart pounding, palms sweating.
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.
(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)
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