The Stony Brook community lost a loved one this Friday: The graffiti on the walls of the Ladies Room in the first floor of the Melville Library.
I came into the restroom this past Friday and was tired, but still expected the usual montage of ranting, whining and complaining on the girls’ bathroom walls. But the empty sight before my eyes was heartbreaking. The walls looked empty and sad. This unusual canvas that had once been the outlet of women’s frustrations, inspiration, and artwork was now gone. Instead, there was a room of ghostlike white, with two bland sheets of paper from Maintenance hanging. “This restroom is used by everybody. Keep it Clean!” the sign said.
But there were so many women, myself included, who would look forward to stepping into this vast chamber of secrets.
I decided to give the walls a closer look, sneaking in one Saturday afternoon, when I knew most other students were either still asleep in their beds, too hung over to be in the library or simply back home for the weekend. I brought my camera, hoping to capture the never ending story of the walls and put the photographs together on a rainy day.
Staring at the pictures now, I am reminded of what those walls were for women.
The graffiti became a picture book of feelings. The walls became trusted advisers. There were Bob Marley quotes and a mutual dislike of Edward, Jacob, and anything pertaining too much to Twilight. There was a thread discussing whether or not Bruno Mars is or is not a “player.” They were a formal complaint about women’s menstrual cycles. They were a way for a girl to confess her love to a boy who would never know. There were stories.
“If only men knew what we went through.” “Some people lock away their love forever. But what happens when someone has the key?” “Happiness is entirely a matter of chance. So take a risk and smile.” “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” “Change because you want to, not because someone tells you to have to.” “Save Stony Brook Southampton!” “Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” “YOU are beautiful. And honey don’t you ever forget that.” “Don’t be a woman who needs a man. Be the woman who a man needs!” “The real world sucks, make the best of college, you’ll miss it.” “Protect your rights as a woman and human.” “Never forget who you are or where you came from.” “In many countries, women are FACELESS.” “I hate this world.” “Dirty the walls, spread the art.” And, my personal favorite: “I come in here just to read the bathroom graffiti.”
The Walls became advice columns. I think the most meaningful words I saw were by one woman who wrote about her boyfriend abusing her. Entire conversations erupted following her comment. “You’re not alone,” a green pen wrote. “Promise?” an orange pen asked. “I swear,” navy blue answered. Someone else wrote her a miniature essay. “…Meet someone new and share a laugh. Cry. Don’t cry. Tell your friends you need them there. Watch T.V. all day. Delve into homework. Get ice cream. As time passes it gets easier…” Someone else suggested calling Suffolk County police.
And that’s something that critics of the walls will never understand. I met a janitor that Friday, as I was staring at disbelief at those whitewashed walls. He said that he had been working at Stony Brook for 14 years, but didn’t give his name. Still, he did talk to me. He said that he had noticed the “mess,”and had read the messages. He remembers laughing at some of them and raising his eyebrow in unprecedented confusion at the others. Regardless, he explained that the writing looked “dirty,” and that he agreed it had to go.
He also told me that it’s just the ladies bathroom that is like this. The men’s room was never as “sloppy” as ours. It’s funny how wrong he is. The Walls weren’t “sloppy.” They weren’t trash. They weren’t a huge disgusting mess. They were art. And, unlike the word vomit spewed by the Plastics of “Mean Girls,” the messages on these Walls weren’t rude, insulting, or derogatory in any way. One girl would say that she felt overweight, and a few days later five other girls would tell her she’s beautiful no matter what, that she should love her body and keep her head high.
Perhaps this is because there exist so many other places where women steadily trash talk one other. It’s almost like we secretly enjoy making each other feel incompetent. One girl will put up a picture of herself in a short dress on Facebook, and people will call her a hooker. Another girl will go out to a fraternity party on Saturday night, and the next day read she has sexually transmitted diseases on CollegeACB. These Walls were one of the few places where kindness and hope always existed.
Rest In Peace, Bathroom Walls.
