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On the Campus: June 4, 1997
Campus friends transform U-Store bills and hair-clogged drains into treasured nostalgia BY JULIE RAWE '97 At senior checkout, I received my cap and gown, my class beer jacket, and the soon-to-be-shelved yearbook, the Nassau Herald, which is currently the object of intense scrutiny. Page 27 lists the results of the class survey, and of the 600 people who answered the question, "What one word would you use to describe Princeton?" 63 percent circled "friends" rather than "thesis" (14 percent), "alcohol" (8 percent), or "sports" (4 percent). Granted, the question reduces a multifaceted experience to a single word and the multiple-choice format is even more restrictive, but I would have come up with the same answer even if it hadn't been provided. José Ramirez-Del Toro '97 put it best when he wrote on his senior page, "The true measure of how great Princeton is lies not behind the books we read. It can only be found in the friendships that we made during our time here." (Perhaps this varsity basketball player's greatness can be measured by the number of times students cheered "Put José in!" as he watched patiently from the bench.) Although I already have trouble remembering the 30 classes I took, I can rattle off the various late-night procrastination rituals that I and my friends devised over the years: running up and down the stairs of Palmer Stadium, driving to poorly lit diners, trekking across the golf course, hoisting each other on top of the giant steel rhombus near the Institute for Advanced Study. Our study breaks inevitably lasted longer than our study sessions, and there were many nights when we never got around to studying at all. I have had a total of 11 roommates (12 if you count one girl's boyfriend who lived with us for a year), and along with these athletes and a cappella singers, I learned how little sleep I can function on and how much hair it takes to clog a shower drain. Menstrual cycles aligned and neuroses bloomed in those seven-person suites where boys sometimes came between us, and the "sexiled" were forced to sleep on common-room couches. Life here may not have been easy, but at least it was never dull. Comic relief pulled us through almost every situation, and consequently most of my memories of Princeton come with laugh tracks installed. Our sitcom suites included such characters as the wacky guy next door, the kid down the hall who brewed beer in his closet, and the one across campus whose flatulence could not only clear the room, but heat a small city as well. I have many favorite episodes, but the weekly plotlines remained the same: we fell in love, we fell apart, we drove each other crazy, and we kept each other sane. As a fourth-year packrat preparing to move out of the dormitory, I find myself taking inventory of all that we seniors will soon leave behind-posters of Impressionist paintings, potted plants affectionately named and rarely watered, the mangy couches and cumbersome rugs people don't bother to sell or send home. Every year they fill the hallways from floor to ceiling, and disgruntled janitors end up chucking them out windows and into the courtyards below. On the day after Commencement, when seniors are forced to clear out, the grassy squares of 1903 and Cuyler will become sites of chaos befitting a collegiate Armageddon. As the Big Day approaches, we talk about starting up communes where we could all live together, with room for our future spouses and children, but we know that never again will so many interesting, talented people live in such close quarters. The lease is up-we're finally being evicted-and as we move out, we'll celebrate our four years together with a somewhat melancholy "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" Later this year, Julie Rawe '97 plans to head out to San Francisco, but there's no doubt where she's left her heart.
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