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COLUMN: No Place Like CoRo

Published: Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Updated: Thursday, September 5, 2013 01:09

 

I remember the moment I found out we didn’t get an eight-man. My statistics class was about to start and everyone was buzzing with his or her housing status. My friend had simply texted us a frowny-face, and I refused to believe that it meant anything other than we had gotten a pick time. But alas it was not to be, and I was heartbroken. I didn’t know how much I had wanted one until the opportunity had slipped through our fingers. I wanted a common room where my friends could watch New Girl, Law and Order: SVU, and Love Actually without having to pile on top of each other in one of our doubles, like we had been doing. I wanted to eat breakfast in my mini-kitchen in my pajamas. But my dreams were dashed day after day until we finally gathered around my friend’s laptop scrounging for the last four adjacent doubles in Williams. Our biggest disappointment at that point was that we didn’t get Welch (at least it sort of sounds like “Walsh,” so someone might think we had an eight-man, right?). And then there was the enduring “Oh, you got CoRo? That sucks,” comments and the oh-so-generous invitations to come over to our friends’ eight-mans, “Anytime!” And to be honest, the first couple months of sophomore year were a little rough—there was the freshman in Mac who started chatting about how she “heard there used to be milkshake machines only on Newton,” to which I could only respond “Yeah, there was,” because I was caught between my desire to establish that I was not a freshman and save the poor soul from any potential embarrassment. And then there was the mortification of watching your fellow sophomores get off at the Lower bus stop while you traveled on to Mac, the utter disappointment that no one was going to keep up the whiteboard in the windows of Roncalli, and the horrendously long walks down to Lower for meetings and practices because “that’s just where everyone else lived.” But as the year progressed and each break in the semester ended I would come back to BC feeling like I was coming home, and my little double in the farthest back, practically unheard of building on CoRo had become my sanctuary. 

And Lower, to me, just became a symbol of status. Lower was simply “cooler,” and that kind of value is extremely superficial. Last year my friends and I still crammed into one double to watch New Girl, and we ate all three meals in Mac (sometimes still in pajamas), but in no way was that a downside. I cherish the memories of cuddle-sessions with four of us to a bed, and when I walked into Mac for the first time this semester I got that feeling I imagine most BC kids get when looking at Gasson at sunset. Each year someone gets the shorter end of the stick housing-wise, whether it’s Upper vs. Newton, Lower vs. CoRo, houses on Foster Street vs. apartments on South Street, or the Mods vs. Edmond’s. There is always the “best” housing (with more social status) and the “worst” housing. And people lose friends trying to get that higher status.

I loved CoRo because it was my home for the year. And what makes a home? Not parties, not proximity to better food, football games, upperclassmen, and all those other things that make Lower “cool.” Living on Lower feels wrong to me somehow—like I’m not actually back at BC. It’s not a real workout if you don’t have the million dollar stairs to cap off a trip to the plex. Game day just isn’t the same when you have to mill through BC alumni (it’s unnerving how much they just look like overgrown BC kids) to get to the stadium. And leaving my dorm to see some of my best friends? There is definitely something wrong with that. Most of them now live together off campus, in a beautiful house with a big kitchen, common room, and even a basement for parties. I decided to live on campus, and my biggest regret so far has not been missing out on a great living space but missing out on living with great people. I didn’t love CoRo because it was closer to classes, or because I got to meet new people, or because no one cared what we did back there (although those were definite perks), I loved CoRo because that’s where my best friends and I lived. And that’s why when I meet sophomores who tell me they live on CoRo my eyes light up and I get that feeling I get when I meet people from my home state—because CoRo will always feel like home to me.

Editor’s Note: The views presented in this column are those of the author alone and do not represent the views of The Heights.

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