Editor’s Note: For now over 75 years, The Baylor Line has been publishing vivid storytelling from across the Baylor Family. I don’t think our archives full of deep, inspirational features should live solely on shelves, so we are bringing them back to life in BL Classics. This Classic article from November 1985 is the second of a two-part series–Collins Then and Collins Now-capturing life at Ruth Collins Hall where many freshman women, including myself, cut our teeth as Baylor Bears. Given the dormitory’s most recent round of upgrades, it may be time for another installment to the series.
Martha rounded the corner gripped with fear, racing down the hall like a comet. Wasting no time looking back, she practically tore the door of Room 247 off its hinges seeking shelter.
Sound like the climactic scene of a Friday-the-thirteenth chiller? Hardly. Just a little late-night prank to spice up dorm life.
Martha had impishly sprayed the contents of a can of European hair-styling mousse on her roommate’s head in one of the poor girl’s most vulnerable moments, in the confines of a restroom stall–a prank not uncommon among the six hundred mischievous residents of Ruth Collins Hall.
These things happen every year.
But the fun of dorm life varies from year to year; new habits are formed, new tricks invented, so I can’t reflect on things past or forewarn you of next year’s antics, but I can give you an idea about what dorm like was like in Collins, 1984-85, my freshman year.
Standing in line for a shower before class every morning became a daily ritual. Some waited in line with bare feet; others were clad in furry house shows with little bunnies or clowns staring up from them. Some wore facial masques “guaranteed” to fight off acne; others wore last night’s smeared make-up. And hair stuck out at every imaginable angle. A true melting pot of faces and bodies greeted me each day as I took my place in line.
Once inside the shower stall, on many occasions, I found life and death depended on a keen sense of hearing. Every time a toilet was flushed, scaling hot water sprayed from the shower head. Jumping out of the way when someone yelled “Flush!” became an art that all learned to master. But there were always those who took sadistic pride in flushing, not yelling an adequate warning and listening for the screams of agony and vows of revenge coming from each shower stall.
There was a conspiracy going on at Baylor, we in Collins decided. The administration must have polled a few hundred girls to find out “When is the best time to take a shower?” The best time to take a shower was synonymous with the best time to have a fire drill.
It never failed. When most of us were dripping wet, fresh out of the showers and into our towel wraps, that loud, never-ending buzzing began. We thought about hiding in our rooms, locking our doors and praying the alarm was just a drill. We also thought about taking just enough time to throw on some clothes and grab a bag to hide our wet faces and hair. (Some opted for choice B.) Those who obediently paraded out into the parking lot across Eighth Street in just a towel wrap realized they were not along.
All the dripping girls subject to public humiliation because of their attire clung together and waited for the word that it was safe to return to the rooms. If pneumonia were the result, the towel-bearers vowed to sue.
Two assistants were assigned to every hall in Collins, one for the north wing and one for the south. Those of us on the second floor, south wing, had no assistant until the second semester. This situation licensed us to be a little extra rambunctious now and then, something we took advantage of without hesitation.
Studying became stale sooner or later for Martha and me (usually sooner than later). It was too dangerous to take a late-night jog, cooking popcorn took too long and Orville Redenbacher’s corn kernels stayed in the carpet for weeks, watching TV was out of the question–all that was showing was “Saturday Night Live” and “Star Trek” reruns, and playing cards just didn’t whet our appetites (all we knew how to play was “Go Fish”). The only thing left to do was dig up the old frisbee, and dig we did!
“I know it’s in here somewhere,” Martha yelled, burrowing through a cluttered closet. “Have you seen it?”
“No,” I answered. “But keeping it in that deep, dark unknown gives it less than a fifty-fifty chance of survival!”
Throwing a frisbee down the long second floor hallway at midnight became yet another ritual–until one careless toss knocked the cover off a fluorescent light in the hall. Martha and I reassembled the broken fixture as best we could and decided that maybe we would retire the frisbee. Perfecting that master-mind card game of “Go Fish” was a goal well worth working toward.
The Domino’s Pizza delivery boys became some of our best friends from day one at Baylor. Sometimes we let them keep the change from a $10 bill (depending on whether it was the first of the month, when we had money to burn, or the end of the month, when we were overdrawn).
We all griped and complained about gaining weight, the inevitable “Freshman Ten”; yet even as we spoke, we were on the phone with one of our Domino’s buddies, ordering a large hamburger and mushroom pizza with extra cheese (but we drank Diet Cokes to even out the calories).
Along with the late-night pizza feasts came the hourly runs to the candy machine down the hall for a “Snickers fix.” We justified eating the calorie-laden candy bars by arguing that the sugar would give us that extra energy needed for late-night studying. We really could talk ourselves into almost anything.
In an attempt to work off the pizzas and candy bars, we put together an exercise routine that would guarantee us instant weight loss. After all, it worked for Jane Fonda! We all lined up in the hallway, outfitted in Padre Island T-shirts and old warm-ups, punched the start button on the jam box, and listened intently for Jane’s next command.
We soon found the woman to be extremely sadistic. The more each muscle hurt, the better Jane liked it. She barked out commands like, “Work that body . . . make it burn . . . whooooooo!” We exercised muscles we never knew existed.
The Jane Fonda crowd dwindled from a substantial number to a couple of dedicated work-out buffs (the ones who own matching leg warmers and headbands). Most of us dropped out when we realized we had to get out of bed thirty minutes earlier than usual to get to class because we were sore and moving slower. It wasn’t worth it. Sleep was too valuable.
“. . . That good ole Baylor Line,” harmonized the Chambermen from the front steps of Collins with nearly four hundred cheering, screaming girls hanging out of their windows, wearing little nightshirts and, once again, bunny or clown house slippers. The Chambermen were the living end; their frequent nightly crooning made girls swoon, or at least yell out their phone numbers!
No males were allowed in girls’ dorm rooms except on “open dorm” days. These were the hours that girls with boyfriends waited for and girls without boyfriends left town. But once in a blue moon an innovative boy or two would somehow make his way into the forbidden halls of Collins at night and venture on what was commonly considered a “panty raid.”
The boys delighted in bursting into girls’ rooms and collecting lingerie, be it panty hose, slips, camisoles, etc. Occasionally they would get caught by angry dorm mothers, have their hands spanked, and return to their own dorms to plan their next practical joke. But more often than not, the boys ran free, carrying armloads of undergarments. Just another harmless prank, until the girls began to “press charges” and demand the return of their “stolen goods.”
Others not allowed in the rooms were animals . . . animals of any kind. But the girls next door had a parakeet named Dirk, the girls down the hall had goldfish named the Pointer Sisters, and I could have sworn I heard meows coming from the crack under a door once or twice. But these weren’t just animals, they were pets. Pet owners informed me that pets and plain animals are as different as night and day. I could see their logic, but just try convincing Mrs. Gage, the dorm mother! A cat is a cat is a cat to her!
The food in Collins was really not bad. Of course, we all had to pretend it was awful because that was the thing to do. Roughly 75 percent of conversations int he Collins cafeteria dealt with the “mystery meat” of the day or “10,000 uses for last month’s leftovers.” Realistically, the cafeteria line always held a wide variety of meats and vegetables, and there was always a well-stocked salad bar and sandwich deli. The possibilities were endless, but one food that could always be trusted was the cheddar cheese soup.
The waiting line in the cafeteria was always long, except for one hour out of the entire day. From twelve noon to one o’clock everyone packed the TV room in Collins lobby to find out what traumatic new love affairs were evolving of the ever-popular “All My Children” soap opera.
And when all of these wonderful, thrilling capers weren’t taking place at Collins, we’d just leave behind all of our worries and fears and play a little Trivial Pursuit. (Martha always won. She memorized the cards.)
And that, no matter how barbaric, how ridiculous, how childish, and how incredibly fun it may sound, is how we lived. Each day brought new conquests; each day brought new friends; and each day brought experiences–learning experiences that I wouldn’t trade for all the gold in California. Ruth Collins Hall is a legend in its time. And I’m sure it always will be.
