Walking through the front gates of campus has a certain movie-like feel. Many Hoyas can vividly recall the first time they saw the towering edifice of Healy Hall, walked through the (likely falling) balloon arch, and finally made it to their “home on the Hilltop.”
However, unknown to many, a secret other entrance to campus life exists: the Leavey elevators. Nestled between a ghost town credit union and cold weather tabling spot, the elevators are unassuming. It’s never quite clear if you’ve hit the button correctly, which door will be the first to open, or if they will ever even come. Nevertheless, eventually your golden chariot awaits, and you’re zoomed—and by zoomed, I mean slowly and clunkily pulled—to the wonderful world of student journalism.
Avoid walking too far down the hallway, unless you’re looking for the bathroom or something to wipe with. Instead, go straight ahead, and you’ll find the overly decorated office of The Georgetown Voice. But this isn’t an ode to the most awarded publication on campus—it’s about the elevators, of course.
Even before arriving at their destination, the unassuming Leavey elevators become an unexpected beacon of community.
After meetings, we fight with the doors to pack entire sections into the too-small space. Once piled in, we take pictures and giggle before dispersing across campus for the night. On our final production night of each semester, the Voice’s GroupMe is populated with texts requesting the elevators to be called when access is restricted at midnight. With each of those messages is someone asking to be pulled into the beloved traditions that come with the semester’s close. These elevators are important, even if inconvenient. They were the face of our recruitment campaign, after all!
On my latest jaunt to the office, I noticed something posted beside my beloved ride: a construction sign, something I’ve become all too familiar with after only three semesters on campus. Starting now and continuing, at least in theory, until the end of the academic year, the Leavey elevators are “undergoing a full modernization.”
Upon arriving at the meeting, I brought up the death of these beloved elevators. I’m being dramatic. They’re not really dying, or even going away by any means. And their phased construction means we’ll never be forced to take the stairs (that don’t go directly to the fourth floor, might I add). But, they’re losing their dangerous charm—the somewhat endearing threat of having to spend the better part of an hour trapped with whoever else dared to take the ride.
In an attempt at manic remembrance, I turned to fellow Voice-rs to recall thoughts, feelings, and favorite memories about the Leavey elevators.
According to Assistant Sports Editor Stella Linn (CAS ’27), the sports section once rode the elevator up, down, and back up for a member of the section who didn’t quite make the closing of the doors. Leisure Editor Lucy Montalti (CAS ’28) likes how the doors open before fully making it to the floor. Executive Manager for Staff Chih-Rong Kuo (CAS ’27) recalls said doors opening in the middle of two floors, forcing her to climb up the floor while simultaneously discovering the inner workings of the elevator shaft. Surprisingly, they make Assistant Leisure Editor Ryan Goodwin’s (CAS ’27) top five smoothest rides.
“The ones up to the office? Got stuck in there for 45 minutes once. What a time,” former Photo Editor Izzy Wagener (SFS ’26) wrote.
To me, as someone who was lucky enough to find a home along the elevator’s route, they represent the risk that my freshman year self dared to take. Waiting awkwardly too long for the elevators to arrive, I met the people who would become trusted editors, collaborators, and even friends. Included in squished selfies, my first year anxieties were quelled by this subtle reminder that just being there was enough. In this way, the elevator’s both uncertain and unpredictable hum mirrored my own feelings. Eventually, we would make it.
As crazy as an ode to an elevator may be, I am not the first to assign absurd meaning to a hyper-specific campus object. As I’ve overheard from tour guides walking backwards surrounded by a mob of overeager high schoolers and their parents, this campus is wrought with assigned meaning. We climb statues, avoid stepping on seals, and are loyal to our first year dorms (Darnall forever). These stories, myths, and traditions are the common threads that tie generations together.
At Georgetown, we pray for trees and boycott bars. Making things arguably too big of a deal is kind of our thing. And, if our student body is to be inevitably replaced every four years, we might as well find something to cling onto while we still can.
Sometimes, however, we must embrace change. I’ll be the first to admit this elevator needs a makeover—well, maybe second, after now-graduated Editor-in-Chief Connor Martin (CAS ’25) who got stuck in it more times than one can even imagine.
These elevators are a reminder to embrace the awkward joy of human connection. Rather than idealizing efficiency, the Voice has formed a community along this inconvenient and bumpy journey. As many try to replace genuine human connection with technologically powered and artificially generated convenience, it’s important to consider why I even cared to comment on a construction notice. In earnest, it points to a desperate love for community, manifested in rebelling against convenience through care.
After all, if change is the only constant, the least we can do is remember.
