Campus Confessions: Crimes Against Campion Take Root

Everyone on campus has something to hide. Whether it be an embarrassing ID picture, fervent admiration for dining hall food or a money “laundering” scheme in Regis, every Loyola student has a skeleton in their closet. My secret is something I’d prefer to keep down the drain of a sink in the second floor women’s bathroom of Campion Hall.

I’d just made the journey across campus from the Information Commons to Campion Hall — a venture not for the faint of heart. I passed the usual late-night bus riders and pushed my way through the iron gates that surround Campion. 

After gaining the energy to launch myself into my abnormally tall dorm bed, I realized I had forgotten to wash my face. 

After 15 minutes of staring at the ceiling contemplating whether or not to get up, I succumbed to my fate and trudged to the second floor women’s bathroom. 

I placed my hand onto the cool wooden door and pushed, stepping onto the tile that never dries while assessing my sink options.

The first was far too close to the wall and had an unrecognizable stain surrounding the outer edge. Sink number two was clogged by two-day-old noodles, a treat left by one of my building mates. The middle sink seemed the most promising.

I went through my routine like I was a part of Vogue Beauty Secrets, internally rehearsing my monologue to accompany my skincare regime. I then walked back to my room ready for bed. But sleep wasn’t in the cards for me tonight.

While doing my nightly scroll through social media, I came across the GroupMe chat for the second floor of Campion and noticed an abnormally large amount of notifications. Given I live there, I decided I should probably take a look at them. Little did I know this would be the last moment I would know peace within Campion’s halls.

To my surprise the texts didn’t address usual complaints of Campion residents like broken driers, but rather a new topic of interest: a plant in the second floor women’s bathroom sink. 

“hey there’s something growing out of one of the sinks in the bathroom”

“yea it look like a little plant.”

“can we name him Obama”

“or Barack”

“I vote Barack”

“I say let him grow strong enough and then move”

“The fact that this is a conversation is insane”

“we’re wall-e ing this”

After doing some geo-navigating, I realized that the exact sink they were talking about was in fact the same one I used to wash my face. But no worries, right? If a plant could manage to get into the sink of Campion it could survive a little La Roche Posay facial cleanser and Peter Thomas Roth pumpkin exfoliator — or so I thought. 

I chose to remain silent about my actions, hoping no one would notice. To my relief, the next day welcomed a cautionary sign above the sink, forbidding people from destroying Barack’s new habitat. 

However, before the day was over, Barack had surrendered to what would probably be considered a bioweapon: a pumpkin chemical exfoliator. As of Sept. 22, Barack can no longer be found in the drain of the middle sink in the second floor women’s restroom of Campion, but he can be found in the hearts of the girls who attempted to save him. 

I laid in bed that fateful night trying to decide if this was funny or possibly the weirdest way to make a secret enemy out of the entire floor of your dorm. I decided on the latter. 

The sink is now open for use again, but with Barack gone, I can’t bring myself to look at it. The glint of innocence and hope behind my first-year eyes have gone out. The hospital-like fluorescent lights that line the halls of Campion have lost all warmth. Sadness has hung in the air for over a week now, and I fear it will never leave. 

To my family, I am sorry for letting you down. To the residents on the second floor of Campion, take solace in the fact that Barack is in a better place. Lastly, to the readers of The Phoenix, let my pitfalls be a lesson for you to always check for plants, possibly named after a former president, in dorm bathroom sinks.

Featured image courtesy of Sophie Burstein