In late September of 2000, my befuddled taxi
driver gave me an impromptu tour of campus as he circled around
trying to find Woodward Court: along the way I saw dozens of kids,
overwhelmed with luggage and carrying a hint of my cabbie’s
own bewilderment as they moved into Burton-Judson, the Shoreland,
and Maclean. At last he pulled into Woodward’s driveway,
built around a sunken garbage pit. I was intrigued. But once I
entered the Jetsonian lobby, with its two giant staircases—joined
at a landing and fanning out, seemingly leading to nothing but
the ceiling—I was sold. It wasn’t a charming antique
like Snell-Hitchcock, but it was dated—the perfect
setting for ironic jabs that grew into genuine affection.
Nestled between the storied beauty of an ivy-clad
Ida Noyes Hall and the sprawling yards of Rockefeller Chapel lay
the squat vision of a not-too-far-gone future. I remember how
often alumni of classes past would stroll through the halls of
Woodward, brightly chuckling as they revisited old rooms, retold
old stories, and gave warnings to flip the mattresses (just in
case). This advice was usually administered to the younger men
and accompanied by amiable punches in the arm and knowing smiles.
Our class of 2004 was the last to enjoy a full academic year with
Woodward, and we can return to the site of our playful escapades
only through yellowed gossip and fond, spotty memories. And so,
before I leave in search of that Holy Grail, the steady paycheck,
I want to pay one last tribute to the dorm that was my College
experience.
Between Woodward’s U-shaped wings, linked
by a section known as the Annex, there was a courtyard that brought
out throngs of students. Those not assigned to rooms facing the
courtyard could befriend those who had rooms that did and spend
several hours staring out their windows, enjoying the benefits
of being on the right side of the panopticon. Every day after
a long string of classes, I would look up and wave at my brooding
friend whose room was directly above the entrance to my wing—the
Woodward equivalent of “Honey, I’m home!” Then
I would rush upstairs, drop my bags in his room, and join him
at the window, waiting for people to trip or catcalling cute students.
I’d never been one for school spirit,
or team spirit, or any kind of spirit really, but it came naturally
to me my first year in the College. Once I figured out exactly
where those Epcot-futuro lobby stairs led (to the food), I huddled
around my house’s dining table, looking askance at those
poor visitors who would have to trek back to their inferior dining-hall-less
dorms. Of course, we Woodwardites had the power of a key, and
we graciously allowed others into our dorm to enjoy our characteristic
goodwill and hospitality. The Escher basement was a popular draw,
with its pool room and exercise equipment, but the maze of stairwells
and slanted hallways always led us back upstairs for communal
television and casual laughter.
The sculpture that stood in front of Woodward
is stored near the campus steam plant.
The lounges were home to couches that redefined
the meaning of sloth. It wasn’t procrastination or dubious
cable that kept us there: it was the couch, worn soft after years
of use, and drooping in the middle. When I first heard that Woodward
would be demolished, my greedy eyes zeroed in on that couch. The
stars didn’t see fit to grant it to me—but when I’m
a stodgy, eccentric billionaire, I’m going to buy a couch
and, à la James Stewart in Vertigo, submit it to a series
of structural modifications in the hope that it will satisfy me
as profoundly as the Woodward one did.
At the end of my first year, students had the
choice to stay in the doomed Woodward for one final autumn quarter.
I remained—and watched my beloved dorm undergo a rapid aging
process. Carpet was stripped from the floors before I could say
farewell to my favorite and most nostalgic stains. The steel sculpture
in the front yard (another item on my eccentric billionaire’s
shopping list), which served no purpose I knew other than competitive
climbing, was taken down and stored in a warehouse. Sensing her
demise, even the faithful couch sagged lower, losing her cushions,
with open wounds revealing her wooden spine. This loss was arguably
my first adult encounter with death, and once I saw the irreversible
decay of the dorm, I grudgingly realized the clichéd wisdom
of “letting it go.”
Months later, after Woodward had been gutted
but before the demolition, a few of us hopped the fence for one
last look at our former home. (The best pieces of furniture were
gone, and with them my thieving impulses.) Unlike all my other
evenings in Woodward, each one a potential candidate for short-story
immortality, I hardly remember that night we wandered around,
revisiting our bare rooms and kicking rubble on the ground, not
saying much at all. We lowered its eyelids and grimly agreed that
this wasn’t our Woodward anymore.
I’ll agree that my memories of the Wood
are not unique—in dorms across America you can find laughing
students in the lounge, you can awkwardly walk in on equally awkward
heavy petting, and you can pick your way through an obstacle course
of legs as you move down the hallway. But dorms like Woodward,
with communal bathrooms, “ugly is the new beautiful”
rooms, locks that require real keys, and cinder block walls, are
a dying breed. While I’m confident that the new class of
superdorm, endowed with modern innovations and a penchant for
convenience, will foster the same poignant memories that only
the first year of college can, I nonetheless feel blessed that
I was orientated to the University of Chicago under the staid
gaze of Woodward Court. Not to mention those other voyeurs in
the Annex.
A. Gray Fischer, AB’04, a Slavic
languages & literature major from Northridge, California,
is returning to her home state to teach at Sierra Canyon School
this fall. Fischer, who is also applying to graduate programs,
dedicates her four years in the College to Gloria and William
Gray of Brentwood, California, and Jordan Weber, JD’65,
of Northridge.