Last week, Johns Hopkins University achieved the incredible feat of somehow making its campus less accessible that it already was. The ominous poles that had lined the Beach for weeks finally transformed into a wall, blocking class routes and rendering the side entrance to Brody useless to anyone coming from or going to the east. While returning students—who by now were familiar with the campus and with Hopkins’s BS—were able to adapt, hordes of freshmen became trapped behind the green mesh, with only each other and a copy of Lord of the Flies to keep them company. Below is a diary entry documenting this day that we are to remember for generations.

Dear Diary, 

I remember when the poles were first erected. I was young then, bright eyed, my hopes high as a neuro major after an NCS exam. I accepted it as normal, foolish like a frog in warm water waiting to be boiled alive. How naïve I was. I’ll never be that naïve agaïn.

On Tuesday September 12 at the early hour of 9:something, I awoke to find my roommate’s bed empty, cold. I was puzzled. Jerry would never go to his 9AM without coercion. I glanced at my phone, wrinkling my brow at the subject line of the most recent RAVE alert.

Before I could question anything, I saw the time and realized I was almost late for Orgo with Dr. Janus. I threw aside my Target twin XL reversible comforter, pulled on my Balenciaga Crocs, and bolted out the turnstiles of Wolman Hall.

As I approached the top of the Beach, I finally understood that ominous email. A great wall had burst from the earth, blocking off the entire side entrance to the library. I gulped in its presence, wondering how I would get in now to print this week’s IFP story—or how I would get out afterwards. I was in such a hurry, I almost didn’t notice the cacophony of screams that floated up from behind the wall. At first I thought it was the sound of this semester’s acapella callbacks, but it was something far less more sinister. Freshmen were pounding on the wall, calling for help, begging to be liberated. I watched their hands press desperately into the arboreal green mesh. But it was almost 10AM, and Dr. Janus does not tolerate tardiness. I shot a quick text to my homeboy Jerry to check in and then continued on my path, narrowly avoiding the massive tree branch that fell to the ground behind me (which injured five and hospitalized two). 

Five hours later my class ended, and yet still no response from Jerry. A knot formed in my stomach as I made my way back toward the wall, following the now-rhythmic, synchronous voices. The wall came into view, but the desperate hands were gone. My phone chimed innocently. It was Jerry. 

I could finally decipher the chanting: “Hail the Great Crane. Quake in His glory. Only He can free us.” He was too far gone. They all were. I retreated slowly, back toward my Wolman double single.

Goodbye, Jerry. We’ll always have Paris.

XOXO,

JJ