Love Letters to the Overlooked at UVA

Written about (and at) locations you're likely to walk past.

1. The hot air vent, outside Monroe Hall and by the Whispering Well

When I'm caught up in the rush, the chaos of a day, I often take a wrong step. Sometimes, I stumble or trip, but when I err on this particular path, between Monroe and Newcomb Hall, I am instead met with a gust of hot air. The grate has never wobbled under my weight, but I am always nervous that this time, it will buckle. The air it emits is stale and slightly metallic, the warmth unwelcome except in winter. Its heat sticks to you even after you walk past, a particularly unpleasant feeling in the summer. And yet I tend to forget about it until my next misstep.

I learned recently that this grate is connected to the UVA steam tunnels. I have heard about the tunnels in passing, a forbidden tangle of pipes running underneath Grounds. I am no engineer, no spelunker, and certainly not interested in getting expelled or killed, so I will not venture below the concrete. Though mysteries often itch at me, I am happy to leave this one be.

A little subterranean city, or the lair of a serpentine beast, its hot breath escaping through the grate, possibly the prelude to some inevitable inferno.

But still, I wonder how vast the tunnels are, how deep they run. When I look into the grate, I swear I see a soft orange glow between the slits. There is light and life and heat, unfaltering, unwavering, underneath my feet. A little subterranean city, or the lair of a serpentine beast, its hot breath escaping through the grate, possibly the prelude to some inevitable inferno.

2. The dirt path, by Clark and Warner Hall

There is a perfectly good path a few steps to the students’ right, the intended one, with solid, concrete footing and accompanied by railings to steady their hands. And yet the temptation of the dirt path wins over most. I sit next to it in the grass, writing and watching people walk past, an impromptu naturalistic study. Even with my presence, no one is deterred. None take the long way, the “right” way. All choose to climb the hill.

I can imagine a time when there was no path, when the grass had full rein over the soil. Maybe it was one wanderer who started this trend, seeing their destination was only a few feet up the hill. They left a series of soft imprints in the grass, and before the blades could straighten their backs and rise again, another person decided to ascend, drawn by the traces of their predecessor. Under the subsequent footsteps, the grass silvered, stooping to acquiesce, until the green of its youth had faded completely and its roots had crumbled.

Even today, the exposed, balding clay is ringed with dying grass, signs of a continuing expansion. Only the mountain of ivy to the left seems safe, the tangles of its leaves too harrowing for the feet of any trespasser. In its depths, poison ivy may lie in wait to punish anyone trying to spearhead an invasion. But maybe there will come a day when the rest of the hill is one ever-widening path upward, where a few lone patches of grass cower at any sound or shadow. Or maybe someone will rope the little path off. Will the grass return eagerly to reclaim its lost territory? Or will it fear a future, perhaps inevitable, where the ropes fall and the students return?

3. The arch, by the Contemplative Commons pond

It is a strange, lonely creature at the edge of the water, guarding the little Adirondack chairs with a stern but crumbling dignity. It is attached to a fence—perhaps it was always meant to just be a gate—but the arch feels like it is missing walls, like it was once part of some larger structure. The bricks on the edges reach into the air for missing neighbors, for those who used to fill in the gaps. Some bricks are a crisp, fresh red, while others are discolored and speckled with lichen. Though time and the seasons have left bumps and scratches and cracks, there are several small holes that are the intentional products of a tool, a sign that something was affixed to this arch at some point—another missing companion.

As a child, I would have imagined that walking through this arch would lead me somewhere fantastical.

As a child, I would’ve imagined that walking through this arch would lead me somewhere fantastical. The ornate curling patterns give it an ancient, mythological quality, though that is slightly offset by the red brick and the no-nonsense splashes of gray concrete. Yet if I chose to walk through this arch, I can see that I would only be walking into someone’s backyard. Yes, it is a nice yard, with plenty of chairs and a well-manicured lawn that puts the grass by the arch to shame. Beyond the arch, the grass is green and wild, but at the arch’s entrance, it is frayed and dying. I am not the only one enchanted by this arch. Others have certainly stood at its entrance or passed through it. Maybe they walked over to look at the little yard through the gate and imagined that they were sitting in one of the chairs. Or maybe they went elsewhere, to a place where no arch must stand alone and where the grass will never wither, no matter how many travelers pass by.

4. The Playground, by Warner Hall

The sign hangs by a chain, levitating above the gate. It is taking up precious space, for this semi-circle of open air is the only view most students will ever have of the courtyard, unless they choose to enter the building it is attached to. I have seen it before, passed by the building many times, but the first time I saw it was, until now, also the last time I had given it any thought. It was a stop, though brief, on my tour of UVA. My guide said it was haunted, with a conspiratorial smile, hoping to instill in us the idea that UVA was a place of great intrigue, of old history and secret societies, and, strangely, a playground.

The Playground, as the courtyard is called, is not truly a playground, not a space for children. The gate does not look imposing, bright and white and conspicuous against the red background; there is even a little path through the hedges leading to it. Yet most are kept away by a simple sign, not the one above the gate, but a small one on the left door. This one is not hand-painted, not as whimsical as its counterpart above. NROTC ACCESS ONLY. A reminder that the jungle gym seen within is not a play structure but instead part of a training ground.

In my hometown of Blacksburg (unusual for a UVA student, I know), there are similar structures where the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets trains. These are instead out in the open, right by a parking lot. I have walked past them, driven by them, always slightly tempted to try my luck at the obstacle course or the pull-up bars. But though there is no gate, no wall, I have stayed away. I have never seen anyone use either of these spaces.

I have never seen a soul “playing” in The Playground. Perhaps it truly is the realm of ghosts, or perhaps the cadets who use it wake up far earlier than I care to. For me, there is something aversive about The Playground. Even if the gate were open, even if the structures inside were free for any student to climb, I imagine I would still hang back. It is a space that belongs to people, future soldiers, who will play a part in a world and a game that I hope to never know.

5. The Mural, Observatory Hill Dining Hall

It is a very short way to go for a pilgrimage, only a flight of stairs, but there is a chance I am the only one who has ever climbed the steps with the intention to see this. A mural, stuck at the bend of an exit stairwell, used to the procession of people heading its way and then pivoting. How odd I must seem to its inhabitants, someone climbing up instead of down, someone choosing to stop and stare.

And if they look up, is the golden ripple of the canopy all they can see? Do they－can they－wonder about the blended sky beyond?

Most of the painted people are caught in their own world, frolicking in the grass, some of their faces smooth blobs of paint unable to stare back. But someone has taken a pen to the rest of their heads, drawing crude little mouths and scribbled eyes. One such face rests on the ghostly figure to the right. It is unlike the people in the grass; its curves and form are inhuman, with an oddly mathematical figure painted across its stomach and a bright glow emanating from its outline. Along with its equally spectral companion, they hold a canopy above the scene, an extension of their very arms. Do the figures by their legs, busy cooking or reading or simply just relaxing, sense their presence? Perhaps, to the people in the grass, the figures are just a distant hum, a glimmer, a whisper of some intangible protective force. And if they look up, is the golden ripple of the canopy all they can see? Do they—can they—wonder about the blended sky beyond?