A room of my own
by Melissa Sherman ’86

haring a room with my middle sister prepared me for the basic unfairness of life. She listened to my telephone calls and repeated my side of the conversation to our mother. She borrowed my clothes without asking and bent the spines of my books. She hissed, “Shut up!” when I talked myself to sleep and rolled her eyes every time I sang or whistled. She pinched things from my drawers, doodled on my notebook covers, and kicked a hole in the door when I didn’t lend her a record. I imagined that life with my volatile sister was good practice for dormitory living, which, at that point, was only about 1,000 days and nights in the future. I was ready for anyone I might be paired with in college.

I certainly didn’t expect to be matched with someone so perfectly, well, nice. My college roommate was what I now coach my own children to be—a good sharer. She brought curtains and bedspreads for our room—and made sure I had the better of the two spreads. She taught me how to apply eyeliner. She introduced me to Van Halen and Led Zeppelin and never complained when I talked myself to sleep. She gave me privacy when my boyfriend visited and space when my dad died. She waited for hours with me when a bad fall landed me in the hospital. She even lent me her favorite pair of shoes. In the annals of dormitory history, I don’t think there has ever been or ever will be a nicer roommate.

All of her kindness, however, didn’t curb my yen for a room of my own. So, for the rest of my college years, I lived in a “single,” first in Laurel Hall and then in Evergreen Hall.

Technically, I actually did have my own room until I was 15. But my space was never inviolable–the door didn’t even lock. Half of my closet rack was hung with the family’s winter coats, and boxes of outgrown clothes lined the shelf and floor. For reasons still inexplicable to me, the ironing board, which was only sporadically and grudgingly used, could be found parked at the foot of my bed so regularly that I often stacked my school books on it.

Then my folks moved to a new home, which—now riddle me this—had the same number of bedrooms as their old home. Suddenly, my infant sister had her own room, and my middle sister and I were sharing a room roughly the same size as the rooms each of us had just left behind. The one good thing? The ironing board didn’t fit in our cramped quarters.

Now you understand the glee I felt about my single. The door locked! The portable ironing board fit under my bed! And the closet was mine, all mine! When I was out, no one wore my favorite sweater, cracked the spine of my new novel, or read my journal. And the single turned out to be my best defense against burnout from a maniacally busy schedule of classes, activities, and part-time jobs. So, what most students looked on with pity (“A single? Aren’t you lonely?”), I cherished. A room of my own!

It’s been a little more than 14 years since I lived alone. I shared an apartment with three other girls for the few months between my final semester as an undergrad and my wedding. Since then, I’ve been sharing rooms with the guy I dated all through college. Not that I mind sharing with him. He is, like my college roommate, a good sharer. But every once in a while—when my daughters rummage through my closet for costumes, or my son leaves one of my books face down on the couch, or my husband picks up the other extension while I’m gossiping with a friend —I wish I were a college sophomore again, standing in front of my very own room, holding the only key.