Let me set the scene: I’m both an international student and a transfer student. When I left my previous college and matriculated to Wesleyan, I had to buy all new dorm essentials—unlike other domestic students, I don’t have a house that I can just leave my things in over the summer. But I wasn’t about to repeat the same process of trashing my old things and then embark on a Target shopping spree every time the semester rolls around, when I could just try to keep my things until I came back to campus. 

I did not take precautions when searching for a storage space during the Spring Semester, and that was because I listened to TikTok manifestation coaches who told me everything would work out. It’s safe to say it did not. Luckily, a generous relative of mine offered me her shed to put all my dorm things in over the summer, and I readily agreed. I went through all the work of lugging boxes, suitcases, and a mini fridge from the third floor of Nicolson to her SUV. I dusted off my hands, ignored my back pain, and proceeded to have my girlboss summer doing my internship in Boston. 

Then the big day arrived at the end of August: move-in day. I had been mentally and physically preparing myself for the semester. I had my new clothes, new hair, and a new personality ready. When the day came, the only relative who could help me move in was my grandma, and she’s an angel. I should probably preface this by mentioning that she goes to the gym more than I do, and can hold a plank longer than me (but I still did the heavy lifting, don’t worry). 

She drove us all the way to Rhode Island to finally pick up all the things I hadn’t seen since May. I somehow managed to fit my mini fridge and boxes into the car. Despite the four hours it took us to trek to Wesleyan, plus multiple highway accidents and wrong directions, our spirits were still high when we arrived. After a lovely, albeit very expensive, lunch at RJ Julia, I hugged my grandmother goodbye and mentally prepared myself to unpack my room. 

I, as the writer, now allow the reader one minute to take a wild guess at what I found in my things. 

I had already made my bed with my fresh sheets and unpacked my clothes. All I had to do then was unpack my boxes with all my dorm necessities and sweaters. As I cut the tapes and opened the boxes, I noticed strange spots. I reassured myself that it was just dirt, even though it clearly was not. I decided to ignore it and placed my jackets on my freshly washed sheets, and it was then that I saw a dead moth on my bed. At that point, I was ready to just book a flight home, even drop out, to not have to deal with this. 

I immediately threw away anything that had been touched by these despicable moths, and kept what I could. I could feel my heart breaking in pieces when I had to throw away some of my most prized possessions. But alas, capitalism won, and I convinced myself I could just spend my hard-earned internship money to buy them all again, and wash whatever could be recovered.

And here lies the problem. I live in a house on Home Avenue. If you live on this street, there is not a single laundry machine in any of the wood frames, nor are there any on the street. I hauled my massive laundry bag past Brainerd Avenue, down Lawn Avenue, and all the way to Pine Street to do my laundry. For that night, a generous friend offered to lend me their bedding, and then I had to do a massive shopping spree in Big Lots the next day where I proceeded to spend all my internship money. 

So here I was at night, with my laundry bag, in workout clothes, walking to Pine. And this wasn’t just any night. It was the first Friday night on campus. Multiple groups of first-years passed by me, giving me weird looks while I carried 10 pounds on my back. I passed by numerous gorgeous girls in their party outfits with their perfume sprayed and heels clunking. The men looked fine, I guess. I attempted to romanticize my life by blasting music in my headphones to make myself feel slightly better. I thought perhaps Chappell Roan could save me, but even that did not help. This was and will be one of the lowest of lows for me. 

After what seemed like forever and a half, I reached Pine and I noticed a passcode lock on the door. Again, I was tempted to just leave this whole country and go home to my parents, home-cooked food, and fresh clothes. I frantically tried to find out the code to the door when an angel in the shape of a Middletown man decided to take pity on me. He stopped his truck and decided to bestow the top-secret code to me. 

So let me reiterate, why is laundry such a pain at this school?

Even when I lived in the Nics last year, washers would either be broken or dirty with athlete shoes, the floors would be dirty, and I would have foreign hair on my clean clothes. That was to be expected living in a majority first-year dorm, so I ignored it. 

If Wesleyan has built a new Frank Center for Public Affairs, is in the process of constructing a new science building, and can even change the Summerfields menu, it can afford washers in all on-campus housing. I have a humble request: install laundry machines in all houses. I’m a transfer student and I now have to stick to this school, so please, I’m begging you, help make sure all of us students can have clean clothes. 

Rania Ahmed is a member of the class of 2026 and can be reached at rsahmed@wesleyan.edu.