You could say I’ve had the worst of times; now I’m having the best of times.
In my two years as a Terp, I’ve lived on polar ends of the school housing spectrum: 60-year-old Wicomico Hall last year and Prince Frederick Hall, which opened in August, this year.
My current home is a 186,000-square foot vision of the future on South Campus, barely 100 feet from Wicomico. It is, in a word, impressive.
I stumbled upon a chance to live here. I got pulled in by some friends in the Advanced Cybersecurity Experience for Students Honors program, one of the two Honors College programs with spots reserved here. I can thank them for the elevator that makes no noise and for the 10 steps it takes to get from my bedroom door to my bed.
Students love it. It has 462 beds, a lounge for studying, a lounge for socializing and two trash rooms on every floor, so the hallways don’t stink. It cost this university about $65 million, according to Clark Construction. The walls remind me of a hotel; the air conditioning is crisp and, at times, too cold. The carpet in the hallways makes you want to take your shoes off.
“I feel like we’re living in a castle on a hill,” said freshman computer engineering major Yichen Qian, who lives in Prince Frederick. “We’re like spoiled kids.”
But one freshman, physics major Sarah Kerr, snapped me out of the P-Freddy lovefest. “It’s kind of ridiculous that everyone is paying the same price for housing, considering the difference in the dorms,” she said.
The reminder of the inequality spurs my short trip up Preinkert Drive to hear the voices from my old building. My hope is that people will say what I wanted to last year, to feel what I felt — at least, what I remember feeling. I want to expose the housing gap, the reason it’s wrong I felt like the Fresh Prince on move-in day this year. A bold mission, I know, and probably a foolish one for someone on the inside looking out. I’m more confused than anything by the time I tailgate my way into the hall I so recently called home.
Wicomico Hall was built in 1954. Over the years, there have been numerous problems with asbestos, some with lead. It is made of brick and features six white columns, powerful structures that were always my favorite feature of the dorm.
The first feelings that arrive after setting foot back into my freshman-year stomping grounds aren’t necessarily bad ones; they’re almost pleasant. I chalk them up to the fact that I’m sitting in the dorm’s only air-conditioned room and look for interview subjects.
I find freshman nursing student Hannah Johnson.
“At first, I was really upset,” she said. “There’s no air conditioning, the rooms are very small. Now I don’t care about the shared bathrooms, the no A/C, because I met a bunch of cool people on my floor,” she said, brimming with energy.
“I don’t really like the building, but I like the people in it.”
Fair. Next is freshman psychology major Ben Weinberg.
“It has a homely feel to it,” he said. “There are very friendly people and it makes you comfortable living here.”
There’s that word again: people. The people in it. The very friendly people.
I ask him about the heat.
“It’s definitely getting better,” he said.
I ask him about safety, about the pipes in plain view, the asbestos, the lead.
“I mean, they say they’ve taken care of it, so I’m not too worried,” he said. What is happening to my interviews, to my plan?
Brian Zimmerman is a senior computer science major and a resident of Wicomico who has lived in the University View and Kent Hall. I ask for his thoughts on a building so old it could have had little dorm grandchildren by now.
“It’s cool to be a part of something that’s been here for 60 years,” he says. “And I lived in suites in Kent and people are a lot more in-contact here; it’s more traditional.” A strange fear of loss creeps into the edge of my mind, as I’m a proud resident of a suite.
Finally, I talk to sophomore biology major Anna Perry. I ask her if she thinks they should tear down the dorm, looking for my first “yes” of the day.
“I would like to bring my kids back here one day and say, ‘Oh, this is where I lived,’” she said.
“This is where I lived.” The sentence has a strange effect on me. I lived there. This is where I had my freshman year of college. This is where I made friends, reached milestones and was happy.
I remember my constant defense of Wicomico, comeback after comeback in response to my friends’ barbs. “I mean look at those columns, they’re almost Roman”; “The location is great; do you know how many minutes before class I woke up this morning?”; “It’s like its own little thing.”
I leave the residents of Wicomico to their own little thing, exiting the front door without the answers I came in search of. A new question is on my mind.
Prince Frederick is nice, there’s no doubt about it. But does that even matter?
***
The elevator reaches the fifth floor, and I step out. I’ve been a Prince Frederick resident for about a week now, and a sense of permanence has taken hold. I rarely wear shoes in the hallways.
I look to the west wall of the elevator lobby, the one made entirely out of glass. It gives me a great view of Caroline, Carroll and Wicomico halls. I briefly study their roofs — withering and gray. I remember seeing a construction crew climbing them recently, tending to one problem or another, trying to prolong the past.
I think about all the history that took place in those buildings and how I was a small part of it. I snuck in right around what will soon be the end. And then, still standing in the lobby with its pristine floors and unmarked walls, I think of how I am now part of a new history, right at the beginning. There is a word to describe this juxtaposition but I’m can’t figure out what it is. Funny? Ironic? Beautiful? I’m not sure.
I walk past the social lounge, where seven students have gathered, Jenga blocks forming an odd shape on the table in front of them, and dig my hands into my pockets. By the time I pass the study lounge, I am aware that I forgot my room key. A couple of steps later I’m at my door. I sigh and give it a couple of knocks, knowing one of my roommates will answer.
