Plastic leather couches border the vacancies at the margins of every dormitory. Common rooms designed according to corporate office standards are destined to remain sterile and desolate. Yours is likely set at the end of the stairwell in a cramped corner or scattered in fragments across the floor. They are built to fill up the space remaining post-construction as an excuse for the college to proclaim the existence of communal spaces. Students are intended to linger in their waiting rooms before class as if it were purgatory. When they come “home” after a long day of class, searching for a living room to rest in, they discover their ideals for comfort have been uprooted in defense of luxury. The lounge does not facilitate congregation or productive collaboration. The residents’ neighbors are strangers, although every face on campus is familiar. As the communal spaces sit empty, void of any community, the college constructs new spaces for community building. The college inhibits community and discourages communal living. Why am I treated like a tenant of the house I am forced to inhabit?

A few days before “Health & Safety Checks,” the residents of Seligman were forced to acknowledge the policing of our dormitory. The sticker placed upon the Seligman Nintendo Switch cautioned, “This item must be returned to your bedroom.” Why does housing dictate what we can and cannot share with friends? Seligman is one of few dorms where the lounge is treated like a living room; goldfish scatter the tables, bookbags are left unattended, and someone is always there to say hello. This is precisely what students intended when guiding its 2013 renovations—a building that feels more like a home than a dorm. We honor their desires by living in the lounge, yet we are prohibited from sharing our personal belongings. The Nintendo Switch had safely remained in the lounge since the beginning of the semester while being accessible to any resident. Super Smash Bros. is played more often in the lounge than it ever will in my friend’s bedroom. Yet, the warning against sharing the Switch invalidated our assumptions that residents solely define communal room usage rules. Students forced to live in dorms are not permitted to live in their space but rather are made to occupy it temporarily without leaving a trace.

The college restricts the extent of how we use our communal space, though we are responsible for maintaining the cleanliness of the lounge. The custodian is only responsible for cleaning the “kitchen” and the bathrooms. The barren kitchen is often already clean because of the college’s clever omission of a stovetop or oven despite referring to the space as a “kitchen”. Residents must sweep, clean, and organize the lounge. The lounge is our only place to convene and must belong to the residents who sustain it. It is the only space where the hand of the college in bringing us together is disguised, and it feels as if our home is ours. Though the college will always manage its dorms to some degree, I believe residents should have the final say in the communal matters of shared lounges. If we are obligated to maintain our lounge, we should be able to live in it unrestrained from the college’s regulatory practices. The possibility of a flourishing residential life is suppressed by petty constraints and regulations imposed by an outside authority. The management of my community is between my neighbors and me.

Why does the college inhibit community in its dorms, then construct a co-op specifically for “community-oriented individuals?” Why are Zü residents granted the privilege of authority over their communal space? Their video game console faces no threat from “Health & Safety Checks” while their custodian scrubs away at the grime in their bathrooms, just like any other dorm. I struggle to understand why the Zü is unique in having this privilege. Like Seligman, Zü residents have to clean their lounge, yet they are entrusted with the freedom to configure their community. Meanwhile, all other students are barred from making decisions about their own communal spaces and can only participate according to the rigid guidelines prescribed by the college.

Amherst students detached from communal living tend to distinguish the Zü from the rest of the campus as if it were deviant or rebellious. I cannot tell if “You would fit in at the Zü” is a compliment or criticism—the comment’s subtext questions whether I am one of those community-oriented individuals or a normal college student. The college has successfully constructed a cultural divide and distanced its students from engaging in their communities. Perhaps students feel obligated to obey the college’s ideology of a unified community, or maybe they do not care enough about their neighbors to establish stronger residential communities. Whatever the cause, Amherst College is responsible for the failure of residential communities.

The existence of a community-oriented dorm implies that the rest of the dorms are not communal residencies but simply living quarters. The college does not want to encourage community or teach interpersonal relationship skills. It does not want you to learn how to cook, to manage conflict, or to feel the comfort of a home. It wants you isolated in your room, under its secure wing. I argue that the Zü should be the precedent for dorms at Amherst. The Zü is merely a dorm where the residents are permitted to live in the space they occupy. Twenty-two students are liberated from adhering to the college-sanctioned arbitrary idea of “community” and are permitted to cultivate their own communal space. More dorms should prioritize communal living so students can take advantage of the valuable and short-lived experience of living amongst friends. Residential spaces are the ideal location for the production of prosperous communities. The college’s strategic mismanagement of communal spaces is a costly mistake.

Say hi to your neighbors. Clutter the lounge with your personal belongings. Live in your home. ■

— Anonymous