Something is different in the air at the University of Rochester today. I first noticed it when I woke up to ash and dust on my windowsill. I looked outside and immediately started to wipe my eyebrows and started sweating some kind of rust. I took a deep breath, only to realize that I was inhaling chemicals, and it only went downhill from there.
If I was a starry eyed first year, stepping outside of Gilbert Hall on my first morning at the university, I would never have noticed it, but now as a certified senior Unc with many years of Rochester Air Sniffing (formal term coined by me) under my belt, I immediately noticed that something was different in the air. It smelled sharper than it did in previous years, and the air today seemed more yellow. Ever butter. Was it sulfur? As I pondered over the air quality, my thoughts were disrupted by the cicadas chirping incessantly. Were they always there? No, this was something new. It immediately caught my attention.
I listened closely, and when the trees started whispering my name, I wanted to run towards them to hear their messages. But when I took a single step, I immediately tripped on a root outside of the First Year Quad. Perhaps this was why one of the trees was removed. Taking this as a sign, I put my ear to the dirt, and I realized something was calling my name underground. And this time, it wasn’t groundhogs.
Instinctively, I began digging the dirt with my bare hands. As a serious news journalist for the illustrious Campus Times, I needed to uncover the truth, and I needed to do it immediately before the school could stop me. Yes, surely whatever was hidden underneath the dirt would be neutralized and covered up by the school by the next morning.
As the dirt got trapped under my nails, my palms sweated, knees weakened, and arms noodled. I continued digging until the hole, eventually, was big enough to fit a person into and I found tree roots squirming in the dirt. They spelled out words for me, and when I held them tightly, they whispered in my ears. The trees told me about life, about death, and about the cycles of the seasons. And about how the years of Wilson Quad events gave them sentience. The years of remnant metal shrapnel and blood in the ground gave them vitality, while the foam and the chemicals in the dirt finally allowed them thoughts.
I stood there for an hour, witnessing them recount the beauty of life after they achieved consciousness. They told me many things. After learning about events beyond my comprehension, I knew that I must share their story in the Campus Times. So I give this warning to you: tread carefully around the First Year Quad, you never know to whom those trees will reveal your actions to in the dark.
