When this dark semester ends, a part of me will die.
Or at least, it will be torn down. When the wrecking ball rips through the walls of Frank Clement Hall in May, the site of my most beloved college memories will be no more.
Many of the women who now live in Frank Clement are probably wishing they could drive the bulldozers themselves. Especially if they realize that every sink in the building- including the ones they use to brush their teeth – also doubled as urinals for many, many years.
Such discontent with the cramped living quarters, along with the lack of air conditioning, elevators, actual furniture and private bathrooms has been a part of the Frank Clement experience since it first opened its doors 40 years ago. I know it all too well myself.
Now, however, I look back on that experience fondly. With longing, even. It became more than a dorm to the people living there. It was our home.
In its past life as a men’s dorm, Frank Clement always had an atmosphere like no other place on campus. The air was thick with anarchy and pent-up teenage male energy frantically looking for an outlet – not to mention the overpowering stench of a few of its residents.
I have never met so many wild and colorful characters, many of whom became my best friends, as I did during my freshman year there. The others drifted away on the winds of fate (and academic suspension), but they will never be forgotten.
I can’t begin to list all the memories: Late nights listening to cheesy ’80s metal, drinking coffee and talking bad philosophy with friends while an equally cheesy horror flick played muted on the television screen. The frenzied games of NCAA football that reached levels of absurdity no outsider could possibly imagine. The guy on the second floor who bred ferrets under his sink. The nice couple who shacked up across the hall in the days when there was a (theoretically) strict visitation policy.
It was a place of lawlessness to match Sodom, Gomorrah and Tombstone. In the spring, residents hung a banner from the balcony that read “Welcome Public Safety!” That said it all. By then, they all knew us on a first name basis.
Those are just some of the reasons I shed a tear when I heard the news of Frank’s impending doom. I can’t drive by it now without being seized by memories of playing unorthodox croquet with my stoner friends on the front lawn, old Misfits songs blaring from a stereo on the 3rd floor as the sun crawls under the horizon.
But progress marches on. The university has decided to replace Clement (and Ellington, but nobody cares about Ellington) with a sprawling co-ed high-rise overlooking the library, one with multiple elevators, real beds and (gasp!) private bathrooms. Frank Clement’s loss will usher in a new era at ETSU, one of soulless housing as the incoming freshmen marvel at their monolithic modern living quarters where they may never even see their upstairs neighbors.
I pity them. While I’m sure the people who move into the new building will enjoy it, I can’t imagine them making the same type of memories.
When I told a friend about our former home’s impending demise, he crumbled into an inconsolably deep depression, full of weeping and gnashing of teeth. I have not heard from him since. I am worried.
So heavy is the weight of this loss – to know that Clement is about to become rubble is tantamount to hearing that the dog who saved your life has a month to live.
It is a void that will never be filled.
With that knowledge, all that’s left for my old friends and me is to keep a stiff upper lip and steel ourselves in the face of the inevitable.
Goodbye Frank. Goodbye.
If anyone can salvage some bricks from the demolition site … I know several parties who may be interested in purchasing them – if the price is right.

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