Recently I returned to my college alma mater for homecoming weekend, a chance to watch football, rekindle old friendships and, as is my passion, visit with my school’s current crop of students so I have some idea of what our nation’s highest bastions of academia are churning out. (HINT: Lots of tattoos).
After my Northwestern Wildcats got drubbed by Penn State, several of my fraternity brothers and I lingered in the parking lot, consoling ourselves with assorted tailgate beverages and hatching an idea: Head over to the ol’ frat house and, without advance notification, ask for entrance. As students in the mid-’80s, our spontaneous plans usually involved midnight drives to Wisconsin; but hey, we’re in our 50s now. A mile-long walk is a suitable alternative.
So off we went, in a steady rain, eventually congregating on our frat’s front porch. Back in our day, the cement slab served as Ground Zero for barbecues, float building parties, even initiation ceremonies. Yes, our house charter was revoked in the early 1990s, so it was no longer Phi Kappa Sigma. No matter; it was still a fraternity thanks to recolonization efforts by Alpha Epsilon Pi. This meant that behind that door resided a bunch of fun-loving guys more than willing to show former residents around our old domicile and listen raptly to our stories and memories. As students, we always served as eager hosts when alums dropped by the house. What could have possibly changed?
Well, everything.
We were greeted by a (SURPRISE!) heavily-tattooed brother who invited us in, and then vanished. An adult chapter advisor shook our hands, encouraging us to look around at our leisure. Several brothers congregated in the living room, playing cards and staring intently at laptops and cellphones.
And that’s where all signs of human interaction ceased. For when we journeyed to the upper levels, hoping for a glimpse of the rooms we formerly occupied, we encountered identical scenes that have left me perplexed about the socialization skills of today’s college students.
Closed doors.
Every door on the second floor: closed. Ditto for the third and fourth floors. No music emanating from behind the wooden barriers; no audible hints of TVs being watched; nothing that sounded like a phone conversation with parents or significant others. Just silence.
It’s a scene I’ve encountered all too frequently now that I have a college-aged daughter. Visits to her freshmen dorm two years ago, and subsequent treks to her student-only apartment complex, began by walking past a sea of closed doors. Contrast that with my four years of campus living, where, unless it was the dead of night, most, if not all, doors were open. An open door was the first step in meeting new friends or discovering novel music that blared from the speakers of the room’s occupant. An open door was the prerequisite to smelling a just-delivered pizza, which meant a study break was imminent. Grab a beverage or a bag of chips from your room, and step into mine!
A closed door meant one of three things:
- I am gone for the weekend.
- I am studying, and it’s not going well.
- I am having relations with the opposite sex. We will open the door when we are finished
Ariel Kopel, 20, a three-year University of Iowa dorm resident, agrees that most doors on her floor remain closed, even though Residential Advisors encourage otherwise. Social gatherings are often initiated via the floor’s group chat. Today a text message, not an open door, signals an invitation.
“When I’m in in the right mood, I consider myself very social,” said Kopel, a biochemistry major. But she does admit her social interests often involve perusing her Twitter and Tumblr feeds. Entertainment can include headphones, thereby drowning out extemporaneous dorm noise from other residents.
Chatting with one of my frat brothers outside the room I occupied sophomore year, its current resident suddenly opened the door (no doubt a result of hearing strange voices, or voices period). I quickly introduced myself, explained my affinity for the room and asked for a quick peak inside. He briefly hesitated but then relented. I saw a lone bed where bunkbeds used to stand, a couch far chicer than anything I flopped on, and an expression on his face that said, “Are we done here?”
We were.
Undeterred, I vowed to make a return visit after a future homecoming game. But first I will use the frat’s group chat.
