The following article was written with dignity on April 1.
John Moran
Contributing Reporter
Wiley Hall – a sanctuary like no other. A self-contained acropolis. Within the storied walls and air-conditioned rooms lies members of the best community on campus. But to just call these intrepid academics mere “residences” doesn’t tell the whole story. You see, we come from all over the world. From places near and far, urban and rural, arid and lush. And despite coming from all around we make this place our home. We, the proud people of the Wiley community, are equipped with the essence of human ingenuity itself. Others destroy, we build. The wretched fester and we shine.
Only a fool would venture into the unknown. Only a fool would abandon sanctuary.
I was a fool. As I wandered across the circle, into dystopia, the liminal similarity struck me. My mistake was known in an instant but I had to commit. The ground floor, oddly linear, is facetious. In scary Garrahy Hall, the second floor hosts the lobby. Navigating the labyrinth is a headache. The familiarity is a lie trying to lure you with false pretense. Only one elevator serves all floors of residence. It pales in comparison to Wiley’s common sense use of two elevators. As you wait to escape, just to move at all, you start to question your own sanity.
Walking through Garrahy’s miasma is enough to drive anyone insane. The rooms are off, the hallways are off. There is no safety here. Garrahy knows when you are there. It knows you don’t belong.
It doesn’t belong. Garrahy is an equivocation. Its existence is uneasy. It’s tearing itself apart. Slowly water drips into the laundry room; even a place to clean in Garrahy is a place scorned.
Sometimes you don’t know how good you have it until it is all taken away. I think everyone learns this lesson someday. It’s a lesson I learned in Garrahy. It’s one of those lessons that you wished you never had to learn. It’s a lesson you must learn.
Luckily, in an instant I was healed. Checking into Wiley Hall, swiping into the sanctuary, I knew I was home. I knew I could rest. I was back to comfort. I was back to my parallel peace.
Two buildings, two sisters, inconceivably different. I detest the mere thought of comparison. I can not think of two places so different from each other.
Maia Hembruff
Managing Editor
On Jan. 20, upon entering Garrahy Hall for the first time as a resident, my life changed forever. The air felt fresher, the people were cheerier and there was an overall sense of peace to the building. After spending my first semester of sophomore year in a single dorm in the slums, I was finally at home in Garrahy. I was entering a new life and a new suite.
Unfortunately, this peace didn’t – as it so often doesn’t – extend beyond the building’s doors. Mere feet away from my home lies another building, Wiley Hall: a building, yes, but not a home.
Wiley residents may pride themselves on their luxurious two elevators, but the pros stop about there. Those who know the sister buildings of Wiley and Garrahy know that while they look very similar, they could not be more different, in substance and in feel.
Walking into Wiley is like walking into that liminal space in your dreams, where blinding white walls immediately surround you upon entrance with high ceilings and empty hallways, as residents remove themselves from the woesome Wiley entranceway. In Garrahy, you are greeted with the ground floor, a safe haven that hosts the laundry room, vending machines and Resident Assistant rooms, in order to ease oneself into the life that shines on the floors above.
On floors one through four, Garrahy residents will smile as you pass them and hold the elevator for you. As the old saying goes, you are what you surround yourself with, and in Garrahy you are surrounded by light, the soft glow of sunsets through windows and the comfort of a classic dorm.
Wiley is cold and unforgiving. Come visit both for yourself, and we at Garrahy will welcome you with open arms when you inevitably come running from the terror of Wiley.
