Word: stoughton
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Spring term reading period came, and I didn't panic too much. I had at least twice the amount of work to do, but ended up doing twice as well. My exams over, I walked back to Stoughton to pack, ecstatic at the thought of leaving the dorm that symbolized for me all the horrors of the year. No more Campfire Girls parties, with shrieking women and very drunk jocks; no more science nerds scuttling around nervously; no more of Chuck's inanities. No more freshman year, with that painful sense of being different...
...dread returning to Harvard the following year; I had made good friends and found a niche in East Asian Studies and The Crimson. I looked forward to starting over, out of the Yard. But I savored every last step down the stairs, past Chuck's room and out of Stoughton forever. Chuck's still loose. And Stoughton's still there. Welcome to Harvard.CrimsonAnthea Letsou...
Room 13: peer counseling. When your roommate goes berserk and your proctor has interview in Paducah, this counseling service, open in Stoughton North's basement from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m., will bail you out and probably offer good advice and/or good cookies. You can also call even if your life isn't falling apart, since these students are used to questions on papers and trivia of all sorts. Interviews for Room 13 are held in the spring...
That was the highlight of Freshman Week in Stoughton Hall. It was not entirely unheralded: I had had premonitions of disaster when I climbed up the four very long flights to my cavernous one-room double and stared at my roommate with the calculator looped around her belt. I had worried about the place when I met the guy downstairs who bleached his hair ash blond and posted death poetry, embellished by skull and crossbones, on his door. I got nervous when I heard the strains of opera punctuated by very loud and horrifyingly off-key singing in the room...
...arrived late, hoping to avoid the first-night exchange of SAT scores. But it didn't take me long to realize that I was going to hate living in Stoughton anyway. The spring before, I had carefully filled out Harvard's rooming form; after three years at boarding school I had a good idea of what I wanted--and didn't want--in a roommate. Three minutes of conversation with Ellen convinced me that some joker in the housing office had read my thorough, if slightly arrogant, application and gleefully selected someone with every trait I detested. In our brief...