The Observer, March 7, 2008
Volume XL, Issue 20
A Fresh Perspective: Residence hall is next bext thing to home
Some people like to see life in black and white. Events are one way or they are another. Everything is clearly defined and outlined and fits neatly where it belongs. This is fine. It is a way of thinking that no one has the right to take away. I, however, am an advocate of viewing the world in shades of gray. From this perspective, nothing is quite one way or another. The light or shadow simply depends on where you are sitting and who, exactly, you are.
Nothing better demonstrates this gray idea of the world than the dichotomy of residence hall life: beautiful and awful at the same time. We are both glad for it and tired of it.
At first, there is novelty! There are 114 people in your building and they are all potential friends. You start meeting them. You shake hands, repeat your name several hundred times to the same several dozen people and share awkward exchanges about trivial things. If you are in Raymond house, you make your way down to the commons just after quiet hours, where they are blasting music (scandal!). There, everyone stands awkwardly with their hands stiffly at their sides. You make conversation akin to, "Wow! You have a dog? Me too."
You keep your door open because, well, that's what you're supposed to do. Isn't it? As a result, all types of people walk in. Maybe not all people you particularly want in your room, but people just the same. You begin to make connections, and these are the people that you grab come dinnertime. These are the people with whom you mob Leutner, take over an entire lengthy table, and play the aged jukebox.
Eventually, the nightly round-up gets old. Your formerly full table fills up only partway and the music parties in the commons are no more. The random visits from strangers stop and you find a comfortable place within your new friends. You are happy. You have finally found your place.
Slowly, things begin to change. Things begin to bother you: yelling at midnight when you have a test the next day, water on the bathroom counters, all of the showers taken when you need one the most. These little aspects of your new life begin to grate your nerves. You maybe begin to resent the events or the people causing them, even though you try hard not to.
And yet, the beautiful part: the people who were there from the beginning are still there for you. When you don't know how much longer you can handle it all, the same people you mobbed Leutner with once upon a time are the ones who help hold your head above water. These are the people who offer themselves for you to lean on, their shoulders to cry on. These are the people with whom you recount the stiff-armed conversations from forever ago and laugh. These people are your classmates, floormates, roommates, and friends.
I am told repeatedly that I see the world through rose-colored glasses, and maybe that is partially the answer. Perhaps the beauty of the packed floors, the nighttime shouting, and the accidental lock-outs lies in the eye of the beholder. Nevertheless, I refuse to believe that it is only this. To me, it is the midnight laughter, smiling faces, and open doors of others that paint the sterile hallways into something loosely resembling home.
Maybe the next best thing?
