It's October 14. Do know where your bed will be next year? At Mr. Jefferson's University, the rush is on. No, not the informal Inter-Sorority Council and Inter-Fraternity Council recruitment process. We're talking housing. And if you're not talking housing, you should be.
As a first year, the whole concept of signing a lease in October seemed overwhelming. When I called my dad to tell him that I was looking for an apartment with five friends, he asked me if I even knew their last names yet.
I didn't.
When October rolled around last year, I felt more prepared for the mad dash toward signing a lease. Not only did I know the last names of my future roommates, but I knew which amenities I wanted in an apartment.
Given the trend over the last two years, I thought the Big Housing Dilemma wouldn't be such a dilemma for my fourth year.
Boy, was I wrong.
I'd considered DSL, factored in parking and weighed different locations. I'd budgeted for rent increases, estimated utilities. But there's always the one that got away, the big factor I'd missed in all my calculations and decisions.
Mr. Jefferson surely is rolling over in his grave: I'd forgotten to factor in the Lawn.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I didn't mean that it was a matter of, "Oh, I forgot I'll be living on the Lawn. Duh." I'm talking about simply applying for a Lawn room and the concerns that come along with it.
Until this year, I never understood clearly the stigma associated with applying to the Lawn. I saw it as an honor, a legacy of outstanding students who gave their very best to the University.
When I went on an admissions tour of the University during my junior year of high school, I stood wide-eyed in front of the Rotunda and said to myself, "I want to live here."
Three years later, I'm saying to myself, "What does it say about me that I want to live here?"
We're all familiar with the term "politico" and its unfavorable connotation. Undoubtedly, we each know someone who has been Lawn-bound since they set foot in their first-year dorm. This person signed up for clubs and councils before even knowing what these organizations did. If it would help them get on the Lawn, they were ready, willing and able to join.
Although it's easy to begrudge someone like this a spot on the Lawn, the rest of us become a gray area. But the more I hear my peers talk about the Lawn and their decision whether or not to apply, I don't like what I'm hearing: If you're applying to the Lawn, you must think you're better than the rest of us, you must be a politico, you obviously don't want to live with your best friends for your fourth year.
In my case, the answer is D, none of the above. Call me na
ve, but I still view the Lawn as the embodiment of everything Jeffersonian. Everything traditional. Everything U.Va.
The psychological issues of applying for the Lawn aren't the only factors I'm wrestling with this fall. The logistics and timing of lease-signings and Lawn applications are fairly disjointed. If I want to resign my lease with my wonderful roommates, the deadline is now, while Lawn selections aren't made until the spring.
Although my entire apartment wants to stick together next year, we have to face that one of us may get a spot on the Lawn. In which case, we'd have to scramble for a new roommate or break our lease and lose our deposit.
Originally I suggested that if one of us had the honor of living on the Lawn, she was automatically responsible for putting two cots in there for the rest of us. It would be like one big slumber party all year. One big slumber party with outdoor bathrooms.
The other option, of course, was to hold off on lease-signings until after the Lawn selections. But that meant we'd be mentally homeless until March. While most college students don't consider the next year's housing until the end of the current year, everyone knows that's not how we do things in Charlottesville.
No doubt the uncertainty of my fourth-year housing plans would have been a source of constant stress all year. Since it seems like anywhere worth living is snatched up before Fall Break, I had visions of a rat-infested hovel without indoor plumbing.
Although our imaginations tend to run away with us during the housing hysteria this month, the reality of the situation can be just as frightening. No one wants to be left out in the cold (literally), and no one wants friends thinking they've become elitist for applying to the Lawn. I don't want to be elitist or political. I also don't want to be homeless or uncomfortable next year.
And the more I think about it, I can't imagine living without my current roommates. Maybe now's the time to go in search for a comfortable cot so we all can be together no matter where we end up.
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