I was at the university again today (I do that when I have classes there). I was taking a makeup test at the remodeled Field House. That place is amazing on the inside! Tons of offices and classrooms and common spaces. The English dept. is there now, as is the foreign language department. Back in the mid 90s, we played some roller hockey on the old basketball floor. Back then, it was just bleachers and old iron-wrought windows, leering high above the potential.
The changes on this campus are stunning.
From there I headed toward University Hall. As I was phoning my chilluns, I saw a stately black man approach the building. I recognized him almost instantly as a writing professor who was very influential to me back in the early 90s, when I first returned to campus after my divorce. He was considerably older, of course, and had neat little white facial hair that looked like painted arrows on his wizened face. I would have liked to have talked to him, but of course the kids picked up the line just then! I followed into U Hall as soon as I could, but didn’t see him again. THEN I finally remembered his name – Jim Cunningham.
I wandered the halls here, letting the smell and memories wash over me. The stairwells that echoed incessantly, step edges worn into concavity. The ancient tang of academia that permeated the marble floors. The screwy office spaces on the 5th floor, with the Daliesque stairwells and bits of modern construction that never quite blended.
My time here has been all too brief, certainly in relation to the span of these hallways. Although I have internalized the aggrandizement of working/teaching here, it seems unlikely at this late stage.
Nevertheless, I have those memories.