Word: roomed
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...thought to myself as I saw my name listed for all to see on the door of the Winthrop housing administrator’s office. She’d posted the names and e-mails of us floaters in hopes that maybe we could form a room together before it was too late. We could then enter the lottery together, pick a number together, scour floor plans together, and hope for the best together just like everybody else...
Until the e-mail. It was instant déjà vu. The Winthrop housing gods revealed to me my floater room number and my new floater roommate. B-32. Nick. An @fas e-mail address to which I was encouraged to write. The anonymity made it feel like freshman year all over again but with budding excitement replaced by jaded frustration. Wasn’t this supposed to have worked the first time...
With little warning and much haste, the buzz-cut jock and I moved into our dorm together. We had nothing to talk about, so we shimmied about the room in near silence. But as he heaved his final box into the room, Nick looked around our common room and said something...
...just how it was supposed to be. We were so different but, somehow, once Nick brought his old red futon into our room, things started changing. Nick and I were like Bert and Ernie—no homo. My jeans were skinny, his loose. My voice loud and high, his deep and low. My boyfriends loved chatting with his girlfriends as they sat on our futon waiting for us before double dates. Nick and I invited people over in the early evening to sit and drink on our futon. We ate drunk food late at night on the futon...
...attended a lot of the Task Force meetings, you know, it’s like Harvard consultants and lawyers sit on one side of the room and the community sits on the other,” says native Allstonian Paula M. Alexander—a staff assistant at Harvard Business School who has worked at the University for over 30 years and is married to Robert...