Roommates: live-in enemies or close friends?

One of the most underrated skills with which college will equip you is the ability to revise your definition of "normal." What seemed within the acceptable range of human behavior when you were in high school might seem misinformed by the end of freshman year, or even the end of orientation. My freshman year was one long revision process, thanks to my roommates. The first thing I learned was that my assumption that a normal living arrangement includes regular communication was not to be taken for granted. Apparently, in many corners of the world, it is considered a grave social error to discuss things like cleaning duties before the squirrels feeding off the ground-up Chinese food in your rug become domesticated.

SHAWN CHENG/YH

But these were simply matters of etiquette. My definition of normal behavioral patterns was even more radically revised at the hands of my roommates. "They seem like such nice girls," my mother would say hopefully on the phone. "Nice" was another definition that was quickly reconsidered. My roommates certainly were nice—to each other, and to their friends, just not to me. One of my roommates was so "nice," she let her friend vomit all over the floor of our bathroom without cleaning it up, and used my towel and bathrobe to mop the drunk's face and clothes. One of my other roommates was so "nice" as to take stray male friends into her bed, and mine. On occasion, I became a temporary Old Campus nomad, wandering aimlessly until one of my friends emerged from her room to give me a home on her couch.

I spent much of my freshman year trying to understand how three girls that had initially seemed so harmless could fill me with such terror. I still cringe when I remember all the Monday mornings I woke up with my nostrils curdling at the smell of stale liquor. And I still wonder which roommate is wandering campus dressed in three-quarters of the clothing with which I arrived at Yale. But at least I salvaged some sort of a happy ending. We are all now better friends than we were when we lived together—they've even bought me birthday drinks and tried to swing the housing lottery in my favor. I even occasionally find myself telling those who inquire, "They're just such nice girls."

When I first arrived in the basement of Farnam Hall (later to be known simply as "The Boneyard," for a variety of reasons), the only person that I'd ever slept in close proximity to was my younger brother, whose interests include professional wrestling and the insightful lyrics of Vanilla Ice. My new roommate was interested in theatrical performances and the music of insane white men as well, except he favored opera and Mozart, not The Rock and Making Love in an Inner Tube. His name was Adrian, he was from Cambridge, Mass., and he was amazing. When we had first talked on the phone in early August, I had commented to my mother that he seemed like a professor trapped in a freshman's body. Frankly, he scared the hell out of me.

The first few days were difficult as we both adjusted to each other. Soon, however, we began to get used to our new surroundings. We began to talk about normal roommate stuff. I adjusted to his bow ties and he to my Penn State football addiction. We talked about interests, passions, and classes. This is what Yale is supposed to be about—bright people from different backgrounds educating each other.

After a few weeks, we realized that we did, in fact, have quite a bit in common. We both loved art history, adored our mothers, and could sing all of the songs from Square One Television. I went to his Yale Symphony Orchestra concerts, he read the Herald. We moved into different circles and introduced each other to people that we wouldn't otherwise have met. Though we've never been "best friends" in the traditional sense, we have a sort of tacit understanding that makes our roommate relationship work.

Our families hit it off as well, even though I once convinced his mother that the pictures of my baby cousin on my wall were actually those of my newborn daughter. The roommate horror stories that I read about in the Herald freshman issue in the weeks before I arrived soon faded from my memory. After a second year with Adrian, in a double in a small quad of the sophomore slums, we're living together again in a three-room double in JE's posh entryway C. I'm looking forward to another year of music, general craziness, and a few bars of "Angle Dance." And no Vanilla Ice.

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