These are the days of panic and desperation, of poring over floor plans searching for the secret spot no one has found before. It's Housing Lottery season, that magical time when freshmen simultaneously pray they don't get waitlisted and jealously plot the downfall of the groups ahead of them that have their eyes set on those few remaining Caswell doubles. Even some upperclassmen get into the frenzy, too. Each group searches with vigor for the room with the hidden kitchen, or the suite with the common room that doesn't cost the apartment rate.
By now we all should know that nothing comes for free, and that if something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. We are, after all, world-weary and cynical Brown students — why should we get our feathers ruffled over a simple housing reshuffle?
But every April, the floor plans go online, and the Residential Council Web site is bombarded like it's selling Spring Weekend tickets, as inquisitive freshmen try to sneak a peek at the mysterious Minden Hall or the apartment-sounding 111 Brown Street. Upperclassmen delve through floor plans and listen to whispers about outrageous rumors like "fresh paint" and "new lounge." But the reality is, there are no hidden tricks — the Office of Residential Life has seen to that, making sure that when it comes to housing, we get what we pay for.
Confronting students when they open up the spreadsheet containing the list of available rooms are the menacing words "apartment rate." What does this mean, exactly? Well, to be honest, it's a closely guarded secret. I've pored over the Housing Lottery Web site, and it's not on there. It seems fairly conspicuous, and as such, would garner some mention. However, there is no explanation in the "Room Info" or "General Info" tab. Similarly, I was unable to find the phrase "apartment rate" at all on the ResLife Web site.
Regardless of the specific fee — which should be clearly delineated on the Lottery page, given its own link and surrounded in flashing lights — the very existence of one seems to me egregious. Every student who enters into the lottery must pay $10,540 for room and board, for the 2010-11 academic year. That amounts to $1,171.11 per month in what is effectively rent for the nine-month academic calendar. On top of that, if any groups of seniors wish to enjoy their final year at Brown relaxing on a couch in the common room, then they need to pay an extra fee for the privilege.
For that exorbitant rent, students are frequently presented with faded and cracked paint, or sometimes outright dirty rooms on move-in day. I had a field day filling out my Room Condition Report this year, noting particularly exciting things like paint chipped down to the plaster, and the peculiarly bedframe-shaped hole that ran the length of my wall. Facilities Management and ResLife dutifully issue fines for damage not noted in the Room Condition Report, but where do those fines go, if not to fix the actual damage?
The most exclusive class in Brown history, in terms of admission, will walk through the Van Wickle gates next fall, and waiting for them are shabby rooms with totally inadequate lighting, heating or ventilation. Instead of renovating the rooms we already have, it seems the University is more intent on saddling current students with superfluous fees and making sure lounges have pool tables. Caswell Hall received a lovely new kitchen, a large flat-screen TV and new furniture in its basement, which replaced the concrete floor, three couches, a ping-pong table and a poorly functioning TV that served as a "lounge" last year.
It seems as though there is an incredible disconnect between the money Brown students' families are paying for them to live at this University and the services students are provided with. If the University is going to continue charging a premium price to live in the residence halls, and continue to increase that fee at a 2.5 percent clip annually, then it's time they updated the services they provide. I'd be willing to sacrifice a pool table to ensure that my desk didn't need to be propped up with old notebooks, or that I can't hide a wiffle ball bat inside the hole in my wall.
I suppose that after examining all of the evidence of the Great Housing Heist of 2010, it's no wonder why the University forbids underclassmen from applying for off-campus housing, and limits the number of upperclassmen eligible. If they didn't, we'd all move out.
Mike Johnson '11 would only publish this column after the lottery numbers were released.
