An Inhabitable Archive

My roommates and I maintain a mini-archive in our suite, famously known as The Wall. Whenever a friend says a particularly memorable quote or we stumble upon a trinket, we immortalize the moment with Post-Its and tape. By springtime, neon squares of yellow, pink, and green pixelate our far wall. Breaking up the grid are tickets from games and shows, an “ELLE WOODS >>> RORY GILMORE” poster from Harvard-Yale, menus from birthday meals, and, with enough tape, even a pair of tongs we found in the yard after Yardfest. But this Wall is only temporary. As per housing policies, nothing can stay on the walls past noon the day after the last final.

It’s hard to separate spaces from the memories they hold. Back when she was a student at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, my architecture professor wrote her thesis on a framework for viewing the home as an inhabitable archive. Our surroundings aren’t just structures for us to occupy, but rather repositories of the lives lived in them.

In a couple of months, we’ll host our last Wall Takedown Ceremony. As in previous years, attendees will select their favorite quotes via a draft pick. On your turn, you read your pick aloud to the group, and then place it in its new home, a scrapbook — a private home for public memories.

***

Sometimes I stroll through Eliot’s tunnels just to see what I notice. There’s a collection of angry spray-painted vegetables with the caption, “Eat your vegetables, before they eat you!” A picture of the river view from the house stands across from depictions of characters from “The Simpsons.” A few steps away, there are tall letters painted in black near the ceiling: “A LIFETIME ISN’T VERY LONG.” I wonder if the person who wrote it was thinking about Eliot, about college, about how quickly something can feel eternal — until suddenly, it’s gone.

These long, winding, and sometimes musty underground hallways are Eliot House’s hidden gem. They are a practical shield from Boston’s harsh winter winds, letting us walk between entryways without stepping foot outside. But they also serve another purpose. They are a physical scrapbook, added to each spring by the graduating seniors. It’s the class’s collective signature, immortalizing their trials and tribulations amid cartoons, quotes, and paintings of Eliot House.

But this summer, it will all be gone. Eliot House is next up for renovations, with construction starting just weeks after I graduate. Since sophomore year housing day, I’ve wondered what I’d add to the walls. But now I know whatever I paint will be taken down almost immediately. With renovations, the current tunnel walls will be removed — though there’s talk of preserving them, it’s unclear if they can be included in the new design. The rest of Eliot will also be transformed: vertical entryways will become horizontal hallways, wood will turn into tile, and new study rooms will branch off from the tunnels. How do you leave behind a place to which you know you cannot return?

***

As renovations loom, Eliot House hosts town halls every couple of months, where residents, faculty, and staff all squeeze into the library. The architects present 3D renderings of the reimagined spaces – immersive videos offering a brief glimpse of what Eliot might look like in 2 years – and solicit feedback. There’s some criticism, saying that the sterile tiling takes away from the charm or the new event spaces decentralize the dining hall, but there is also a hint of excitement.

“Eliot is sinking into the river,” we sometimes joke about its current state of disrepair. While I cherish Eliot’s quirks – overheated rooms, pipe bursts, and all — these renovations promise to make our House not just newer but truly accessible. Elevators will replace the pant-inducing five-flight stair climbs, ramps will appear where there were only stairs, the dining hall will be expanded so the whole house can attend community dinners, and perhaps we’ll even get air conditioning.

***

Back in the tunnel, a mastodon, Eliot’s beloved mascot, clutches a red balloon beside the words, “sometimes all you can do is let go.” I pause, running my fingers over the paint. Every year, seniors paint these tunnels. Every spring, we tear down The Wall, pressing memories into scrapbooks. Eliot empties, then fills again – new voices speaking up, new cards swiping in, new lives unfolding in the rooms we leave behind.

Soon, I’ll have my last meal in the dining hall. I will marvel at the pretty chandeliers and the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. But when I glance around at each dark wooden table, what I will see are the conversations that were held in its spindle-backed chairs – the faculty dinner at the round table in the middle, the chaotic brain break at the long table in the far back.

Post-renovation, new tables will sit in these rooms, with no histories attached. I imagine future students navigating spaces previously closed to them, adding their own marks to new walls.

"The essential is invisible to the eyes" reads a quote from “The Little Prince,” tucked among the graffiti. What stays behind isn’t paint or plaster; it’s the way we’ve marked each other when the walls themselves were the only witnesses.

The mastodon still clutches its balloon. Maybe it’s not about how to let go, but whether we ever truly do. Places like Eliot shape us, then release us, while some invisible piece of us remains. The building may change, but the home it built in us endures.

I linger for a moment longer, then keep walking.

–Staff Writer Rhea L. Acharya can be reached at rhea.acharya@thecrimson.com