When I read a New York Times story about students paying $10,000 for professional dorm room makeovers, I was immediately transported to my first day at Providence College, 50 years ago this month.
My idea of chic back then was the light blue sheet set with a “Peanuts” motif that I had stashed in my luggage.
Now, my roommates and I certainly could have used the services of a professional decorator. Our room was a bare cell. But $10,000? That’s about double the amount my parents were paying for my tuition, room and board.
In 1974, no middle-class parent would have shelled out a dime for a professional decorator for their kids. My mother had sewn the curtains for the bedroom I shared with my sister. My only other dorm room “decorator item” was a throw pillow. I’d done a crewel embroidery piece with a pattern of flowers, which my crafty mother then used as a cover for one of her beat-up old living room pillows.
Heck, before I started earning my own money, I was lucky to get a professional haircut once a year.
The Times article gave me a chuckle, especially as I reflected on that freshman dorm room.
For starters, there were three girls in a room meant for two boys. (PC had just gone coed two years before. We were now showing up in droves, hence the overcrowding.)
There was a sink in the corner, and believe me, it wasn’t the “Ruvati 19-inch Murano Glass Art Vessel Seashell Decorative Pattern Bathroom Sink” currently going for $599 at The Home Depot.
It was white. There were pipes.
One of my new roommates signed up to play hockey, so a pile of equipment and uniforms soon rose by the sink.
We placed one bed along the edges of two desks to give ourselves more room. This was the extent of our “makeover.”
I disliked this room intensely, but everybody in the dorm was in the same situation. I made friends with a number of girls in our building, but not in the other female dorm, McVinney. That was a good thing, because I’d just have been jealous when I hung out with them. McVinney was a new high-rise. Aquinas Hall (our place) was a gothic monstrosity built before my uncle was a student there in the 1940s.
Remarkably, and I’m sure because I was only 18 and a lot more flexible than I am today, I managed to become good friends with one of my roommates and shared digs with her for two more years.
I was enjoying my first semester when, as winter approached, I got sick with a terrible flu. I had to quit my work-study job, which I had liked a lot. As I recovered, and scrambled to make up lost work, I started having doubts about whether I wanted to stay in college.
In retrospect, I wonder if that crowded room (with the hockey equipment), contributed to my qualms. More space definitely would have been helpful, but I do like attractive surroundings, too. Aesthetics was not something I really thought about at that age—my social life was paramount. But as an adult, I’m still having creepy thoughts about those sticks and knee pads. Maybe they affected me subconsciously back then.
I eventually felt better, both physically and emotionally, and got a much larger room the next year. This building was about 10 years old and the rooms were meant for three people. It was airy, with a wide window. I bought a plant to put in front of it and tended it carefully. Most importantly, I had used some of my summer job earnings to buy a portable record player. The turntable folded neatly up into a vinyl case and there was a handle for easy transport. I had music. Life was good.
In my junior year, I finally had a chance to live in my dream location—McVinney Hall. It was new. The rooms had views (we were halfway up the 10 stories). They were made for two and contained two. I could sit at my desk and look out the window and get some work done.
I believe there was wall-to-wall carpeting, but I may be imagining that.
It was a little soulless, I had to admit. Maybe a little too perfect? Still, I had no desire to go back to the room with the bare sink.
Besides, that year I had an item that really made this room home for me. My father had been inspired to build a bookshelf. It was narrow and short, and could fit on top of my desk. On the side he had carved out, vertically: “PC 1978.” My graduation year. Aw, Dad!
It wasn’t fancy. A professional decorator surely wouldn’t have approved. But I cried when I saw it.
The college experience is life-changing. It can be hard at times. The connections to home and family are what see students through the rough patches, not designer linens.
Several Facebook friends posted photos of their children’s dorm rooms as they moved in a few weeks ago. I saw posters and photos and sports memorabilia plastered on walls like it was 1974. There wasn’t a Herman Miller chair to be seen.
I breathed a sigh of relief. These kids are going to be all right.
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