Last year, when Alexander was a freshman, there were signs
everywhere welcoming us. Red-shirted
students helped unload our cars. Activities were in place all over campus for
the incoming students.
Sophomore year is different.
There is no fanfare. We pull up
to Alexander’s dorm, and see no other families unloading.
Alexander’s room is tiny.
It’s a single masquerading as a double.
Really. The singles on the floor
are the exact same size. Alexander and
his roommate John have to share ¾ of a closet.
Alexander’s laundry basket is in the middle of the room, as there is not
enough floor space to accommodate it.
Even the floor lamp we bought last year has no place to fit. Exacerbating the problem is Alexander’s
packing technique. Basically, he emptied
out all his drawers from home, without any thought to the clothes he actually
wears and likes. For him, it was easier to just throw everything into a large
trash bag and be done.
I informally measure the size of the room: 18 by 12.
I spend the next couple of hours helping Alexander unpack, while making
calls to find someone in Housing.
Finally, I connect with the Resident Hall Director, who is nice but admittedly
powerless. All Brandy can do is listen
sympathetically and tell Alexander he can complete a form requesting a room
change. The likelihood of getting
another room assignment, with his roommate, is miniscule. Though in truth, I think I am more upset than
my son.
I show John around the idyllic campus. Our plan was to have dinner with Alexander,
but it’s now almost five, and we have a long drive home. So instead, we say goodbye.
I get home around 11:30.
I see Alexander’s toothbrush lying on the sink and miss him already.
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