I teach my English 2010 writing classes in a labyrinthine building with exposed concrete walls throughout. It has a circa 1979 vibe—dark, narrow hallways; windowless classrooms; industrial labs devoted to woodworking et al; and, unexpectedly, the dance and theatre departments.

It’s creepy AND flamboyant.

I arrive on campus before dawn twice weekly and make my way through the university building that could easily be featured in a horror film.

I love it.

It’s weird and outdated, and I secretly find that funny and cool. I feel an affinity for the GT’s overly utilitarian spaces and the predictable metallic smell of concrete wafting through it’s confined corridors.

I guess I kind of like that it’s ugly and old and strange, a patchy bunch of garages and man caves welded together. And then there’s me, showing up to talk shop with my students (shop, in this case, meaning “writing!”)

It’s decidedly right-brained. I’m decidedly not a dude. It’s not the 1970’s and I am not handy with the power tools.


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