IAN BENSON
I have fallen in love at first sight precisely once in my life. I was 19. It was September 20, 2011. I’d spent the summer dealing
with a bout of cancer, and I still carried my body like I was sick. I nervously ran hands through my short blue hair as I wandered the back hallways that lead to the Voice office. I had been there briefly before, but only for an interview with just two other people, not when it was abuzz with the whole staff for layout. I heard it before I saw it. The noise was a mixture of indistinct chatter, occasional shouting, chairs wheeling about and a printer refusing to work, with music muddled in there as well. There were nearly 20 people, sitting, working, reading, writing, laughing or doing absolutely nothing in particular. The office felt instantly familiar the moment I stepped inside, its fake wood paneling, dreadful red carpet and broken seats revealing its well worn and well-loved history. Tuesdays would quickly become my favorite least-favorite day of the week.
But a place is nothing without people. And the people that have come through this office are some of the greatest friends I have ever known. I came in, awkward and shy and in desperate need for an escape from my recent history. I found companions that bordered on kin, a group that took me in like no other had before. Under the Voice’s influence, I grew more comfortable, and I grew more mature. Some will probably say I grew louder. Eventually, I found myself in charge and becoming more like the people I looked up to and the people I still look up to.
The Voice is 109 years older than me. I hope it outlives me by tenfold. I hope thousands find it like I did and that they put their souls into it and let it change them. That goes for Wooster as a whole. Sure, we sit here and complain about the little things and there are serious flaws that need to be addressed, but this place is important to me. I’ve struggled with myself, with the people around me, with depression and with cancer, all on this campus. It’s seen me at my worst, but if I could do it all again, exactly the same, I would. It’s all passed by quickly but I’ve never doubted its worth.
College may be a cruel institution. We’re thrown together from all over and in four years, we’re all torn apart and tossed into the world. Just when we begin to create something special, someone leaves. But that’s the point. Everyone has to leave here sometime, and now it’s my turn. It’s time for others to create something special out of the pieces that are left behind. Every fall, the Voice is reborn and indiscriminately feeds on time, people, ink, thought and money. It’s never satisfied, and it finally stops when it is cut down just as it finds its stride in the spring. It’s a beautiful monster, and one that I will miss like no other. I’d be half the man I am now without this office’s influence. I found home and love and heartbreak and life down here.
I love this place. This whole place. From Bornhuetter 243 to Kennedy Apartments C and B to Kenarden 333. From Kauke 305 to Gault 351. From Woo 91 to the UG. But most of all, I love the office down here in Lowry, where barely anyone knows we exist, except us. Where we’ve got four cold concrete walls covered in memories that date back lifetimes (but no cell reception). I’ve loved it from my first day here to my last. To paraphrase an idol of mine, this is a good place, and one worth fighting for.