Finding Yourself in the Housing Lottery

THESE DAYS, if you told me that people were running around madly in the Yard at 8:45 in the morning, I would assume that snow was falling and that first-years were naked.

Not so the day I received my housing assignment. Above the din of the Mem Church bells, I heard another shrill and annoying sound, quite clearly emanating from the third floor of Weld. It was a bloodcurdling, hair-raising, "this is where Cameron freaks out" kind of scream. It was the C-word. "Currier! Currier! Oh God, I've been Currierized!!" The day had come.

That was the scene two years ago and I am sure that that pretty much described the wake-up call for a good number of first-years yesterday morning. If they went to sleep, that is.

There will always be those nail-biting, self-inflicted ulcer-suffering first-years who want to be there, wide-eyed and ready, when the white envelope is dropped off to reveal the house of their choice (or maybe not) in the Hell Lottery.

The whole process can be relatively devastating. First-year friendships often take a nose-dive during house-picking season.

Take the example of a good friend of mine. Two weeks before the deadline, he had already decided on the easiest way out-- remaining with his current roommates, forming a group of four. Before he knew what had hit him, a gargantuan rooming block of 18 had mushroomed out of control.

The week before the forms were due witnessed massive debates over North and Mather--pitting those who never leave home without frequent flyer mileage cards against those with a taste for neo-penitentiary architecture.

Of course, the whole group split up and performances on the next day's hourlies were far from stellar, but in the long run, the whole episode brought them all closer together. Unless they were randomized, that is. That guy screaming in Weld no doubt wanted to ax the roommate who put down Cabot in order to "just test the system."

BUT IT'S GOOD that the process is no walk in the park. We already get enough handholding and kinder garten chaperoning from Mother Harvard. It's about time students are awarded the independence befitting adults. We already have our toilets cleaned for us, our meals cooked for us, our daily Crimsons delivered to our doorsteps.

When the Gulf War erupted, Dean Epps was there to tell us where to travel during spring break and when to return home after playing with our friends.

No, it's damn good that first-years have to make those agonizing decisions, staying up late arguing with their friends and maybe even losing some the night before the deadline. It's a way of teaching what friendships are all about.

If two guys can't talk to each other just because one liked the Currier fishbowl, then I can't see why they'd truly value each other's company in the first place.

Indeed, for many of us who had never before faced the prospect of living away from home, choosing roommates and a place to live represented an act of total independence, perhaps unprecedented in our lives.

And although 15 percent of my classmates couldn't boast of the feeling, the rest of us experienced the right to benefit from--or to struggle with--a choice made wholly on our own.

This is all pretty good preparation for the future. When you're deciding where to live later in life--say, Manhattan, Soho or Long Island--you'll face similar issues as when you chose between Eliot, Adams or Cabot.

And picking roommates for the next three years is great practice for prioritizing the qualities you'd want in future housemates. Do you like people who squeeze the Aim tube from the bottom? Do you hate it when the toilet paper is rolled over instead of under? It's never too early to pick that perfect rooming group.

SO DESPITE ALL the pain and anguish, the lottery process can be truly a positive experience, bringing first-years together and injecting a sense of suspense and excitement into the other wise dreaded weeks of mid-term exams.

The lottery returns a sense of camaraderie long missing from the first-year class since Orientation Week.

Only this time, talk in the Union switches from what your hometown is and who your roommates are to where will you be and who will you live with. It's like having a fresh start all over again.

On the morning when everyone found out, Harvard Yard was like a summer camp. A group of future Dunsterites had gathered by the kiosk in front of Emerson Hall, a procession of celebrating Currier-bound first-years lined the walk in front of Lamont and a bunch of soon-to-become Adams folks sat on the steps of University Hall.

Of course, throughout all of this, the grief-stricken cry from the third floor of Weld reminded all of the uncaring eye of statistics. The berserk first-year was dragged off in a straight-jacket, most likely only to return in the fall to find himself with all kinds of floaters in his common room (you know, on account of some dingbat explanation like fewer juniors taking the semester off due to the recession).

In any case, it's over. The whole lottery process really wasn't that hellish after all. Don't worry about where the Fates of Harvard flung you. Read that housing form, run to your roommates' dorm and head over to your future house for breakfast. Or maybe for brunch tomorrow.

Don't forget that tie if it's Eliot, keep your pajamas on if it's Adams and start hailing a cab if it's Currier. Treat yourself. You'll be walking a hell of a lot for the next three years.