On Monday, I found myself in a room of 20-30 averting eyes, nervously peering outside of their circles of friends to catch the eye of the group standing right beside them. There I stood around a table, full of shame, holding up a sign that read “Party of 3, looking for a party of 2.” So, I thought, ResLife’s planned “mingling session” had begun with great success. I believed I could stoop no lower, that I had reached my breaking point, and would do anything, anything, to throw down the sign. Little did I know, however, that this was just the beginning, the entry point into a make or break system of wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony that would rip out our souls one by one before hastily throwing the broken pieces back together again.
Without boring you of the specifics, my group lost the housing lottery—one could say it slaughtered us. I cannot tell you my disappointment upon seeing my number. Soon, finding housing became a constant ringing in my ear to do something, anything really, to fix our situation, even at the cost of friendship. Soon, feelings were hurt, unhurt, and re-hurt once more, as groups tried to reconfigure themselves in a struggle for “senior class survival” that would determine our final happiness, our legacy, our destiny.
I recognize that this is an overstatement, to say the least. But I tell you, five hours ago it sure didn’t feel that way to me. As I agonized over splitting up a group of seven friends into multiples of four and five, I became disenchanted with the whole operation—Wesleyan, senior year, my friends and classmates—and as a coping mechanism, tried removing myself from the process entirely.
I took a good look at myself in the mirror—the suddenly awkward and uncharacteristically shy girl, who had clutched a piece of paper in one hand like a beggar amongst a crowd of strangers. We were all in the same, unlucky boat—juniors looking to live with our friends for one final, epic year at Wes—yet I could not help but perceive the unspoken, yet glaring distance between us, as if, after three years, there was just no point anymore; we had our friends, they had theirs, and that’s just the way it would always be. Housing became everything to us, but compromising, joining “strangers” became unimaginable. We were at a standstill, and remained there up to the last, painful moment of decision.
Today I am suffering from what my friend referred to as “residual stress,” the culmination of a week of hair pulling, unsaid tensions, frantic break ups, and ironic re-groupings. I don’t know what it was about housing that was so distressing to me (I rarely write on a whim like this)—but something about it set off an irrational fear inside of me. With one-year left of college, the housing mess does not bode well for what lies ahead—a world void of GRS, but with bills, leases, and mortgages to take its dreaded place. Despite my fears of the “real world” filled with more strangers and unknowns, I felt the sudden desire to run for the hills (maybe, Foss Hill) and engage in some quiet introspection. In some sense, I still feel as though I am still holding onto that awkward sign, searching for a meaning to this whole affair. Maybe there isn’t one—all is fair in love and housing, right?—but one thing’s for sure: I’m done with GRS for good, and I’ll never look back.