Robots, 2018

The party is one of the only outlets provided to the generic Hendrix student. There is an oblique joy that hangs like fog in the air on a true Party Night, when the campus comes abuzz in fervent fervor, and the lines between myth and reality blur through rose-tinted beer-goggles. It was 2018, one such night, the traditional ‘Robots’ party. This was the last collegiate year that Martin would exist, before the renovations came, then the virus, vacating the space for three years. Being as such, the Martin Men were partying like the world was going to end. There was electric, static energy tangible in the building, with the lobby and four first-floor dorms packed well over the CDC-recommended limit with college kids, foil and consumer electronics taped to their t-shirts. The sweat and heat off a hundred some-odd bodies condensated onto the walls and ceiling, the indoor “Martin Rain” coming down in thick salty droplets. Maybe it was the heat, maybe some tactless vaper, stoner, or genuine miscreant up and pulling it for kicks, but the fire alarm went off, and everyone in the building was forced to vacate the premises, gathering on the bricks in front of the Altus Bell.

Occurrences such as this were highly routine in Martin. Almost no one present believed there to be an actual fire, but regardless they had to stand and wait for the Fire Department, around 10 or 15 minutes, which is a while in party time. Having everyone out in the open was the only way to truly understand how many people were packed into Martin on a given night, and the crowd was robust, spilling out onto the grass.

This cycle of false alarms happened around four times on this particular night, and by the last no one was remotely amused, around 1 AM. As the Martin Men lined up, standing idly by the Altus Bell, one nameless hero, a member of the Martin Hall Council, reportedly had suffered enough. He said something to the effect of “If I can’t party in Martin, might as well party up there”, and proceeded to climb the flagpole. Usually, people who climb poles utilize a short rope, which they fasten both sides of to a belt of some sort, to shimmy their way up slowly alongside the rope, which holds them in place. This gumptious young Martin Man eschewed all such safety standards, wrapping his legs securely around the pole instead, and sort of throwing one arm up after the other, proudly showing the partygoers what he had to prove. He got not quite to the top, but well over halfway before he looked out content onto his domain, towering above. The Dean, frazzled, had to head over and inform the disgruntled firefighters and students that it was probably time to call it a night, and the people, knowing that it was over, laid down in their beds and agreed. A couple copycats made their attempts in the successive weeks, but none got more than a few feet off the ground, wielding neither the gall nor the sheer destiny.

A couple months later, the Hall Council held a solemn drinking circle around Martin Rock, mourning the cultural reset they anticipated, because of the renovations, and in some sense the cultural reset they couldn’t have anticipated, the Covid-19 pandemic. It was the centennial of the building, which was built in 1918. The Martin Men I spoke to regretted a few scattered traditions that will likely be lost, such as “Tour de Franzia”, a French themed party, and the “Butt Run” which should not and will not be elaborated upon, but overall had hope for the future. They know that at a college tough as Hendrix, students will crave the unique form of release a party provides. While the names and faces may change, a desire for community and joy will exist in Martin Hall as long as there are humans living there, some of whom, I hope, will be as impressive as that guy who climbed the flagpole.