Secret rooms, trap doors, offending the Wiccans
September 2018 through March 2019
Hansee Hall was paradise, an odd paradise. The old brick building is stuffy, silent, dark with a warm dim glow. One got the sense of living in a subtle past, or acting as the backdrop for someone else's psychological thriller: all was well, but around a corner some low-stakes freshman version of The Shining could be playing out, or perhaps one of Shirley Jackson's lesser known short stories. The music of grand pianos echoed up the stone stairs and filtered through the long empty hallways, muffled by the seventies carpet as if underwater. Sometimes the wind swept in under the door and hummed. The electric fluorescence of the erratic bathrooms, after the soft dark of the corridors, seemed like stepping into another time, as if the honey-colored, dust-scented air you'd just left was the real world, and the wifi signal your fumbling router put out was evidence of ghosts haunting the halls rather than a hallmark of modernity. Downstairs, the ballrooms held overflow housing, sorority rejects, folks who'd tried to rush and then either failed or changed their minds. The thick-upholstered armchairs evoked the Lotus-Eaters by way of early Agatha Christie, with green shaded lamps and wood-paneled walls. Secrets abounded. There were hidden rooms behind the pianos, locked safes, old telephone cubicles from the 30s under the stairs, trapdoors I was empathetically not to open, a Snack Shack concealed behind a (poorly) locked door emblazoned with electrical warnings. It was Heaven, or it would have been if I had a crowbar.
And then there was my life there. I lived in McKey House, across from a shower that alternated between scalding and frigid, in a room with half moons carved in the wardrobe and a radiator that could bring water near-boil, a defect that I used to steep tea in glass jars when the snow banked up outside. Some unknown person in the neighboring rooms insisted on singing loud falsetto at 3 am once or twice a week, and my coleus from my Bio class (named Stick Plantorum) died of the cold from the single pane window. I joined Hall Council, bothered my friends down in Leary House, and learned rather a lot about leadership.
Hansee Hall was paradise, an odd paradise. The old brick building is stuffy, silent, dark with a warm dim glow. One got the sense of living in a subtle past, or acting as the backdrop for someone else's psychological thriller: all was well, but around a corner some low-stakes freshman version of The Shining could be playing out, or perhaps one of Shirley Jackson's lesser known short stories. The music of grand pianos echoed up the stone stairs and filtered through the long empty hallways, muffled by the seventies carpet as if underwater. Sometimes the wind swept in under the door and hummed. The electric fluorescence of the erratic bathrooms, after the soft dark of the corridors, seemed like stepping into another time, as if the honey-colored, dust-scented air you'd just left was the real world, and the wifi signal your fumbling router put out was evidence of ghosts haunting the halls rather than a hallmark of modernity. Downstairs, the ballrooms held overflow housing, sorority rejects, folks who'd tried to rush and then either failed or changed their minds. The thick-upholstered armchairs evoked the Lotus-Eaters by way of early Agatha Christie, with green shaded lamps and wood-paneled walls. Secrets abounded. There were hidden rooms behind the pianos, locked safes, old telephone cubicles from the 30s under the stairs, trapdoors I was empathetically not to open, a Snack Shack concealed behind a (poorly) locked door emblazoned with electrical warnings. It was Heaven, or it would have been if I had a crowbar.
And then there was my life there. I lived in McKey House, across from a shower that alternated between scalding and frigid, in a room with half moons carved in the wardrobe and a radiator that could bring water near-boil, a defect that I used to steep tea in glass jars when the snow banked up outside. Some unknown person in the neighboring rooms insisted on singing loud falsetto at 3 am once or twice a week, and my coleus from my Bio class (named Stick Plantorum) died of the cold from the single pane window. I joined Hall Council, bothered my friends down in Leary House, and learned rather a lot about leadership.
Hall Council
I joined Hall Council because I got an email about applying for a position shortly after I moved to Hansee. At the time, I applied to almost anything that appeared in my inbox: I wanted experience and I was willing to do whatever work I was even vaguely qualified for. When I interviewed for the lowest level of leadership, the interviewer, a friendly, well-dressed law student, asked if I would be willing to serve on the Executive Board. I said yes. So I became an assistant director.
I did not know what my job was, precisely. I ran ice-breakers, sent out surveys after meetings, and talked when no one else had anything to say. I think the head honcho thought I was sketchy or problematic because I advocated strongly for Halloween and loved Thanksgiving. (The latter has a far more complicated past than many people believe, and anyway, I like having a holiday dedicated to being grateful. "Harvest festival" doesn't have the same connotation. As for the latter, I will never forget Britney the boss saying that celebrating Halloween could offend the Wiccans, who consider it their traditional holiday.)
My high point was real-life Clue, where I served as the GM and narrator for an odd murder game, inspired by the board game and the brilliant movie of the same name. I also successfully started the informal Hansee Hall Arson Club, which had a fire in the Blaine fireplace late in winter quarter. I'm proud of us. That said, I would make a terrible politician. I never figured out what exactly I was supposed to be doing, I mostly just made friends cracked jokes during meetings, and I apparently disrespected definitely-real-not-absurd religions and in general failed at being sufficiently P.C. (a first in my life, I think). That was my last traditional leadership role, and that is probably for the best.
I did not know what my job was, precisely. I ran ice-breakers, sent out surveys after meetings, and talked when no one else had anything to say. I think the head honcho thought I was sketchy or problematic because I advocated strongly for Halloween and loved Thanksgiving. (The latter has a far more complicated past than many people believe, and anyway, I like having a holiday dedicated to being grateful. "Harvest festival" doesn't have the same connotation. As for the latter, I will never forget Britney the boss saying that celebrating Halloween could offend the Wiccans, who consider it their traditional holiday.)
My high point was real-life Clue, where I served as the GM and narrator for an odd murder game, inspired by the board game and the brilliant movie of the same name. I also successfully started the informal Hansee Hall Arson Club, which had a fire in the Blaine fireplace late in winter quarter. I'm proud of us. That said, I would make a terrible politician. I never figured out what exactly I was supposed to be doing, I mostly just made friends cracked jokes during meetings, and I apparently disrespected definitely-real-not-absurd religions and in general failed at being sufficiently P.C. (a first in my life, I think). That was my last traditional leadership role, and that is probably for the best.
Left to right: Hansee Hall Arson Club; McKey Piano, with the door to the secret room behind; one of the trapdoors, inside the secret room.
Classes at UW
During my time at Hansee, I spent hours upon hours sunk in the same armchair in the corner of Blaine Lounge, doing homework. I competed with the RAs for possession of it; it was famously the most comfortable chair in Hansee, and perhaps on campus. My grandest projects that year were completed in that chair, and I credit my good grades that year to its comforting embrace. I include three examples below.
Arctic Marine Vertebrate Ecology
One of the required classes for an Arctic Studies minor, FISH 464 ended up attracting the sort of people whose company I enjoy. Several of the students went on to study at Friday Harbor with me, and the professor spent every other year in the Arctic doing field work on polar bears and narwhals. I became obsessed with walruses over the course of writing this paper, perhaps because I spent two weeks on it, rather than my more usual two-to-three days. This class convinced me that the Arctic was among the world's most interesting regions, a place worthy of dedicating one's life to.
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Medical Ethics
On the first day of class, Dr. Moon Draper walked in wearing a purple baseball cap with alien antennae, set down his folder of papers, and said, "Hi, I'm Moon. You can call me . . . Moon." I was immediately won over. This would be a good class.
I admire Moon immensely. He is intelligent, funny, highly educated, thoughtful, and a good teacher, all traits I too would like to possess. I have a contrarian streak, and Moon taught me to tame that into careful, nuanced arguments, for which I am eternally grateful. When I heard that he and Dr. Jon Herron (who taught my Bio 180 class) were going to lead a trip to Costa Rica, I applied right away (with Dr. David Giblin writing my letter of rec). Two astute biologists in one of the world's most biodiverse areas? Of course I would go. |