Throughout my entire undergrad, Queen’s campus has felt seemingly endless. Each year, I discover a new study spot, a new secluded park bench to sit on between classes, and a new overpriced vending machine in one of my lecture halls.
Coming back for my fourth and final year, I was convinced there would be nothing left to uncover. It felt bittersweet, as I was coming to with the fact I had already seen and experienced everything Queen’s had to offer. But I was wrong.
Tucked away in a small stone building nestled next to Humphrey Hall, covered in ivy with a beckoning red door, I discovered my new favourite place on campus: Queen’s University Archives. The building, named after Kathleen Ryan, a 1926 Arts graduate, whose generous donation allowed for the relocation of the collection in 1981, houses a treasure trove of Queen’s history. Originally dating back to 1869, when the first document was presented, the archives is a place to take a peek at this school’s rich history and walk out with an unwavering sense of belonging and pride.
This fall, as part of my work with Queen’s Athletics & Recreation, I’ve had the unique opportunity to dig through the archives. Tasked with gathering historical documents and photographs for the new Rec Club’s website, I’ve spent hours combing through yearbooks, files, and folders to uncover the histories behind student clubs. When did Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu split from the original Jiu-Jitsu club? When did the Ballet and Jazz Club evolve into the Competitive Dance Team? These are the questions keeping me up at night.
My first visit to the archives was in late September. I seeing the green ivy in bloom, beautifully decorating the exterior of the building. Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I wandered aimlessly in search of the elevator, eventually opting for the stairs. I squishing my bag into a small locker and powering off my phone, which was flooded with texts, reminding me that everyone else was enjoying themselves at the pier.
After a short onboarding process, I was required to leave all food and drink at the front door, which meant parting ways with my iced matcha. The archivist at the front desk scanned my student ID and then asked me where I wanted to start. Feeling anxious and unsure of where to even begin, I decided to dig into the yearbooks.
Credit: Queen’s University Archives, 1960.
I created a plan of action: first, I would start with the 1960s yearbooks, scan any important images and information, and comb through the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 2000s. Over time, I flipped through the pages of different decades, feeling a strange sense of familiarity.
I saw images of The Journal house, where I spent the majority of my second year working as the Assistant Sports Editor. Smiling to myself, I ed the dozens of collegiate games I’d covered, feeling underqualified and unsure but empowered by the editors above me. The upperclassmen at The Journal were my first true role models at this school. I the bonds we formed during endless rounds of edits, last-minute interviews, and the camaraderie we all felt when the printed issues were ed out on Friday morning.
The photographs of past Journal staff reflected something undefinable but deeply shared—a sense of purpose, a commitment to the craft, and a unique connection to the paper that’s the heartbeat of this campus. It was a legacy I had been a part of, even for a brief period of time.
Credit: Queen’s University Archives.
In the yearbooks, I saw old photographs of our campus and community radio station, CFRC, where I volunteer as a student broadcaster. In these images, the record players—now displayed around the station as decorative memorabilia—were in use, adding a layer of history to the space I’ve come to know so well.
I found a ribbon from the 1947 Ski Club, an organization that I now spearhead as the Ski & Snowboard Club. It felt as though I’d stepped into an alternate universe, seeing parallels to my own Queen’s experience, but just a couple of decades before my time.
I came to Queen’s with an inherent disconnect; I didn’t grow up in Canada. Coming from the US, my only connection to this country was my dad’s Albertan background and the citizenship card I inherited from him. The Tragically Hip played in my childhood kitchen, and I spent time at my grandfather’s house in Oakville and ate Timbits on the drive back home across the border. Still, I felt no attachment to my Canadian identity whatsoever.
When I first arrived at Queen’s, it felt like everyone was either from Toronto, Calgary, Vancouver, or some small town in between. I struggled to find my place and my footing, and to combat this feeling of isolation, I threw myself into extracurriculars—ing everything from Peer Health Mentors to MUSE Magazine.
Credit: Queen’s University Archives.
It feels as if I’ve touched every corner of this campus.
From attending religious events and candlelight vigils to cheering on friend’s performances at Clark Hall Pub and the Tea Room, I’ve dipped my toe into nearly every pool I can. At times, I feel as though I’m the poster girl for the ongoing “Get Involved on Campus!” campaign.
Yet, after four years of exploring various subgroups and activities, I find the archives to be the place where I feel the most connected. I see my past experiences woven into the tapestry of Queen’s, alongside generations of students who came before me. Their lives—sketched out in yearbooks or old newspaper copies—are echoing my own, reminding me these experiences aren’t mine alone, but part of a long-standing tradition of student life.
Credit: Queen’s University Archives.
Despite the changes Queen’s has seen over the years, the rawness and struggle of being a young adult has remained consistent.
The yearbooks from the past capture the feeling of meeting your roommate on first year move-in day, the anxiety of mid paired with the joy of Homecoming, your first heartbreak, the last day of exams, graduation, all followed by the first day of the rest of your life. These overwhelming emotions and experiences have stood the test of time and serve as a reminder that we’re all a part of the same ongoing narrative.
Sifting chronologically through decades of yearbooks, I began to watch the sheer size of our campus expand, the student population grow, and each club’s leadership evolve. It’s now mid-November, and when I walk out of the Archives, surrounded by red and orange changing leaves, I have a broader understanding of Queen’s as a university and Kingston as a city.
There hasn’t been a single visit where I haven’t found myself moved to tears in the Archives reading room. Perhaps it’s my sentimental nature, but I believe it’s more than that. There’s something intangible about the atmosphere in that building—a quiet yet powerful energy that connects you to this place we all call home, even if it’s just for four years.
Credit: Queen’s University Archives, 2000.
As my final semester at Queen’s approaches, it feels as though I’m living in both memory and anticipation, with one foot behind me and the other stepping into the future. The past is alive and breathing in Queen’s Archives and listening to the stories of those who came before us serves as a striking reminder that our time here is fleeting and precious.
No matter where you’re from, what student life organization you’re involved in, where you live on campus, or if your time at Queen’s has long ended, we all share the rich history woven into this university.
Corrections
A previous version of this article stated Kathleen Ryan graduated in 1972. In fact, Ryan graduated in 1926.
The Journal regrets the error
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