By Matt Anderson ’21
Eggplant Editor and Fearful Junior
Most of us who have lived on the Hill have felt it: the worry that something you love has been found by unworthy hands. You see it when an upper-class student takes the stairway beside Kimball, glancing behind them nervously to scan the horizon for first-years who might track their movements. The anxiety has nearly reached a breaking point. I am speaking of course about the haven that is Lower Kimball, and the paranoia that this place of refuge may, in the future, be compromised. However, I am pleased to report to non-first-years that a survey by J.D. Power™ found only 950 of this year’s incoming 4,562 first-years have even heard of Lower Kimball. The most common responses from the survey were, “You mean Kimball?” and “How did you get into my dorm room!?”
Some elements of campus remain fearful, however. “This isn’t even satire anymore, if the first-years clog Lower too, then I might starve,” said junior Ima Hogg. “This is the only safe place left. I haven’t been to Upper Kimball in two years, and I’m already half out of dining dollars for Crossroads.” Another upper-class student, Sean Larsen, wrote: “Have you seen the line to get into Upper Kimball? I swear, if I also have to wade through a herd of first-years to get to my chalupa bowl, I’m gonna transfer.”
Since fears arose, Father Boroughs and the administration have placed bouncers at the entrances to Lower Kimball. They have been instructed to ask potential first-years, “Who do you know here?” There are skeptics that don’t think this goes far enough, however. “I’m just saying, if they got Gracie the Goldendoodle to foster community spirit, we should also get a few Dobermans to teach them that community spirit doesn’t extend to Lower,” said one senior. “In fact, we should go the whole nine yards: tear gas, riot shields, and maybe a tank.”
J.D. Power™ can’t say how long the inevitable will be staved off. Eventually, Lower Kimball will be a paradise lost. The memory of waiting less than five minutes to get a chalupa bowl or a chicken sandwich will become a faint memory, a story the old tell their unbelieving grandchildren. But let me urge readers to remember; Lower may one day become clogged with first-years, but it will still occupy a spot in the heart of anyone who ate there.