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Why a House Is Not Just a House By Adele Johnsen '02 I wake up at 8:10 on Monday morning
for my nine o'clock Social Ethics class and head into the bathroom.
The sound of several showers running echoes faintly from the
back of the bathroom, and several girls stand bleary-eyed After getting dressed quickly, I run downstairs to breakfast. Opening the swinging door to the dining room, I'm hit with the smell of pancakes, which are steaming in a chafing dish on the buffet table. The slightly bitter scent of black coffee also hovers in the air-students' defense in the struggle to stay awake in a nine o'clock class. The walk from the quad to the center of campus takes 15 minutes, so we begin filtering out of the dining room around 8:45. It's a gray, foggy morning, and the bright colors of students' coats and hats create a cheerful contrast to the bleak sky as their wearers whiz by on bikes or huddle together in groups of three or four. Flyers and chalkings decorate the sidewalks and streets on the way to class, adding additional color to campus; they often advertise activities and protests. I spend most of my day in class and at work; around five, I pack up and begin walking home. It's already early evening, and it's beginning to get chilly and dark. The campus, with the exception of a few students and several busy squirrels, is quiet. Reaching Cushing, I welcome the familiarity and warmth of my house and the smell of heat wafting up from the radiators. I realize that Smith has turned me into something I never thought I'd become: a homebody. While my high school life revolved around leaving the house to hang out with my friends, socializing at college usually means staying at home. Cushing is where I eat and where I sleep, but it's also where my friends are. It's where I get the greatest sense of community. I run upstairs to my room, dump my backpack and jacket on the floor, and head downstairs to dinner. Though the meal started only a few minutes ago, a line of girls already stretches out the dining room door and into the hallway. Inside, conversation is louder than usual, the tables are packed, and there's a flurry of activity coming from the kitchen. It's pasta night, a favorite, needless to say, and we've all suddenly developed enormous, insatiable appetites. After dinner, I return to my room to write a paper. The halls are quiet; with the exception of Ally McBeal at 9 p.m., there's not much going on tonight. Even my ceiling, which occasionally rumbles with the excited activity characteristic of the floor above, is silent. My routine for the remainder of the week mostly matches Monday's: I spend much of my time shuttling among class, work and meals. I occasionally spend Tuesday night at a poetry class or poetry readings, which are sponsored by Smith's new Poetry Center. Most of the readings are in Neilson Library's Browsing Room, but on a recent Tuesday evening, my friend Kristin and I headed over to Wright Hall auditorium to hear Frieda Hughes read from her new book of poetry, Wooroloo. The auditorium was packed with adults and students eager to hear the voice of Smith alumna Sylvia Plath's daughter. On Wednesday night, two of my friends and I deem dinner disgusting (it's Mexican night) and decide to order Domino's. Since the three of us are excessively picky eaters, we often have to find alternatives for our meals. Domino's is always an option; we also spend a fair amount of time at Davis Center's grill, which, inevitably, is packed on nights when dinner is particularly bad. We also keep a stock of emergency backup supplies, like tomato soup and Kraft macaroni and cheese. Thursday nights are highlighted by
our weekly candlelight dinners. Linen napkins and tablecloths
line the tables; the room's lights are dimmed, and the glow of
candlelight sparkles on the silverware at each place setting.
We all sit at our usual tables, and together we enjoy the family-style
meat-and-potatoes dinner Thursday night's meal usually entails.
While we pass dishes around the table and discuss The dining room is deserted at dinner on Friday evening. A handful of my housemates have headed home for the weekend; several more are out and about, out to dinner or off at another college in the area. My friends and I haven't decided yet what to do tonight. Having ruled out partying and going to a movie (nothing good is playing), we ultimately decide to walk to town and pay a visit to Herrell's, Northampton's best ice cream shop. After we finish our smoosh-ins and sundaes, we return to Cushing. Down the hall, rock music is blaring; the bathroom counters and sinks are littered with makeup bags, hairbrushes and hair dryers. A group of girls is getting ready to go out for the evening. We have a quieter agenda: we change into our pajamas, make a bag of popcorn, and curl up on the couch in front of the old cartoon version of Cinderella. At 11 o'clock on Saturday morning, I head down to the dining room in my pajamas. Brunch is just beginning, and the tables are sparsely populated. The buffet table and salad bar are not; they're lined with plates of fruit, breads, and muffins, a pot of oatmeal, a bright array of juices, and trays of waffles and scrambled eggs. I take some eggs and juice and a copy of the Boston Globe, then join a friend at her table. As I sit and read, more girls filter in; discussion around the table centers on what we each did last night and what our plans are for the day. Typically, those plans involve studying or taking trips into town; occasionally, those of us with cars (or with friends with cars) will venture down to the Holyoke Mall. But an important component of a Saturday afternoon is our tea. While most houses on campus have their teas on Friday, there's a small group of houses, including Cushing, that hold it on Saturday. As we gather over cookies, raw veggies and dip, and tea in the living room, we have yet another opportunity to establish and maintain our close community. It's one more house event that makes Cushing seem less like a dormitory and more like a home. |
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Copyright © 1998, Smith College. Portions of this publication
may be reproduced with the permission of the Office
of College Relations, Garrison Hall, Smith College, Northampton,
Massachusetts 01063. Last update: 10/18/99.
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