Roll Quad

Some people say housing day is the best day of the year. For our blocking group, it was a little ...
By Tara Raghuveer

Some people say housing day is the best day of the year. For our blocking group, it was a little different. One of our blockmates cried, one threatened to get an apartment, and another stopped speaking entirely for seven hours. That’s right, we got Quadded, exiled to a neighborhood closer to our peers at Lesley University than our 10 a.m. class in Sever, or any remnants of old Harvard ivy-enlaced grandeur, or—worst of all—the Hong Kong Restaurant, Lounge, and Nightclub.

Now we’re sophomores, and having just moved into the chicest nursing home on campus, Currier House, we’re here to dispel the myths that we believed as foolish freshmen on that fateful day in March when 12 tree huggers ran into our room chanting and dancing around in not-so-appealing green bathing suits.

The worst part of living in the Quad isn’t the distance, which isn’t that bad by the way. It’s telling people that you live in the Quad. People react as if you’ve been diagnosed with leprosy or you’re moving to Yemen. For instance, if one says, “I’m living in Cabot House,” one’s Eliot “friend” might respond, “I’m so sorry; you didn’t deserve that”—to which we would say, “No one died, y’all. Except maybe the cockroaches you had to kill last night in your infested room.”

We actually enjoy coming home to our huge singles at night, hanging out in Quad dining halls with our Quad pals, and making friends with Shuttle Boy. (No one ever told us he wasn’t real. Why can he only ever hang out in seven minutes? And why does he always want to take us to Mather? )

Sure, the 4:30 a.m. fire drills aren’t the best, and maybe February won’t be our favorite month, but the Quad has already become a cozy home base, and we’re in great shape from walking back and forth from the river and running to catch the party shuttle for our nightly dose of strobe and swerves.

We’re excited to see how it all turns out, and we’ll be sending dispatches from the back of the magazine here throughout the semester. For now, at least, we understand that the worst part is the stereotype and the best part is not having to sleep on a bunk bed as a senior—hey, Winthrop!