There is quite a bit less furniture in our room this year.
Our double, nestled at the end of the longest hallway of Hedrick Summit, has no varying wardrobe sizes and no bunk beds. The shared bathroom is strikingly less cluttered ““ as only the products of four, not six, young men line the sinks.
Yet, despite the profound increase in free space (and the resultant increase in feng shui sensations of peace and harmony), there are only subtle differences between the start of one’s first and second years.
Last year, my suitemates and I knocked on doors in order to meet people in the hall. This year, many of the people living on the same floor are actually neighbors from last year. We still knock on doors, but we already know the faces inside.
Last fall, one of my roommates invested in a large flat screen TV. There was an immediate surge in traffic across our doorway, as our circle became divided up into contingents of “Heroes” fans, “Lost” fans, NBA fans and NCAA fans.
My roommate this year brought a much smaller but still competent TV to school. The piece is not as much of a friend-maker as the Wii next to it. Already, there have been divisive conflicts between Mario Strikers and PGA Golf.
Our hallway is much longer than the one we lived in last year, but glancing out the door, one still finds clusters of residents sitting, talking and avoiding sleep. Perhaps the only real difference that occurs over a year is that “mandatory meeting” is now understood to be quite relative.
Essentially, no matter the faces or electronics or architecture, dorm life is not so much an individual experience as one of the many archetypical journeys that make up what is “college.”
There are certain experiences that resonate throughout the residential community.
Wondering if your roommate is coming back or sleeping somewhere else for the night is one of them. Remembering (or in some cases, discovering) that your window is really quite visible from the outside ““ especially when you’ve just gotten out of the shower ““ is another.
All of these things ““ waking up thinking you’ve slept late only to discover your roommate will be asleep for another two hours, somehow rationalizing to yourself that you do not need to wear slippers in the bathroom because only four guys this year use it ““ are neither annoyances nor necessarily positives.
They are assurances. The comfort associated with dorm life is incongruous with what is stereotypically found in many people’s non-campus homes.
We do not wake up to the smell of toast in Hedrick Summit, but we are never told when to sleep.
We do not get to walk our dogs or pet our cats, but we don’t have to pick up after ourselves much.
And while we have less personal space than we’re used to, we do get an extra-long twin mattress.
There are simultaneous shortages and excesses. Not enough washers and dryers, too much free time in Zero Week. Not enough meal swipes, too many late nights.
All is haphazard ““ Polaroid photos, concert ticket stubs and letters from loved ones become wall decorations ““ but all is also serene, in the most chaotic, “college” way.
It is this duality that allows for a change of room numbers and buildings, but not a change of experience.
Some halls are quieter, some are dirtier, but they are all tainted with youth. Some are farther from campus, some are bigger, but they all reek of anticipation for what is to come.
And while some may ultimately not be free of tragedy and stress, they will all be home to students acquiring greater understanding ““ of academia, of social interactions and of themselves.
So as I realize (for the second time) that my minimalist packing had resulted in forgetting a couple essentials from home, but not forgetting to bring a rubbery-plastic toy gecko, I’m also reminded of just how much it does not matter.
After all, I am home again.
Think living in a dorm room is a far less romanticized experience? E-mail Makarechi at kmakarechi@media.ucla.edu. Send general comments to viewpoint@media.ucla.edu.