Owen is a third-year English student.
By Charlotte Owen
Hope: my perpetual ruin.
Of what do I speak? Do I suffer because I believe in world
peace? Have I endured three years of torture because I have faith
in De Neve’s prompt completion?
Alas, no. Hope has become my nemesis as a direct result of the
phrase “it will get better,” the mantra I invoke every
time I find myself installed in one of the sardine cans I’ve
called home for the past three years. I simply cannot bring myself
to believe that the UCLA housing situation will not improve, and my
faith will be my doom.
I spent my freshman year in the residence halls in a triple
room. I will never forget the hell that was my room. One of my
roommates constantly cluttered up what little floor space I laid
claim to with dirty laundry. She also had an aversion to sunlight
and air (she once mumbled something about the prevention of human
photosynthesis, and I was too afraid to ask questions).
The other was in bed by 10 p.m. every night, and insisted that
all electronic equipment (including computers) had to be turned off
when she went to sleep. Her alarm clock, which sounded like nothing
so much as a cheerful notification of impending nuclear war, went
off daily at 6 a.m. sharp, at which point she proceeded to press
the snooze button no less than three times before rising.
My dear roommates left me so little storage space that my desk
and bed were always covered with junk. I couldn’t breathe in
that room. At one point, I actually spent the night in the study
lounge to get away from it.
At the end of the year, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had
convinced my parents, through a truly amazing amount of begging,
crying and whining, to help me pay for an apartment in Westwood the
following year. It’ll be better next year, I thought. Silly
little girl.
My first apartment: Sure, it was expensive, and the pay-check
from my part-time job would just barely cover half the exorbitant
rent (my parents, bless their souls, were paying the other half)
with a little left over for food, but it would be worth it. I would
have a living room, a kitchen, a shower floor that didn’t
require a flu shot to stand in, roommates I didn’t hate, and
best of all, a little space!
But I was quick to discover that four people in two bedrooms is
not a huge improvement on dorm life, especially if said rooms are
actually smaller. I quickly grew to detest the kitchen; foul things
grew in counter crevices and on stovetops. Between school and work,
I never had time to clean, unless it was at the expense of my
homework. The living room looked smaller and smaller as the year
went on, and the shower only produced enough hot water for two
people per morning.
But hey, I thought, there must be some good, affordable
apartments in Westwood. It’s a college area, right? It will
get better. It has to.
Suffice to say that it didn’t. My new apartment bears a
striking resemblance to the old, minus a few square feet of living
space. I am working full time now to cover the expense, as my
college fund is dwindling. I still study. I believe I am keeping
the cup noodles company in business single-handedly, which allows
me to basically avoid the kitchen altogether.
And still, I dare to hope. I have a dream. I dream of a day when
housing near campus is both affordable and habitable. I dream of
the day when the Office of Residential Life will find itself
located in a sardine can and told to enjoy itself. I dream of the
day when the average student will have the funds to pay for both
shelter and food ““ in the same month.
Impossible, you say? Perhaps. Hope has brought me nothing but
disappointment in the past. Nonetheless, I look to the sky and
dream of a new abode, a better abode, an abode without ramen.