I'm on the way back to my room after a long day of classes. I pass the co-ed bathroom, where my friend is scrubbing the urinal. Her 3-inch-heeled boots are soaked. She's not smiling.
"Bathroom duty?" I ask.
"Yeah," she grunts. "You?"
"I'm cooking dinner. Indian, I think."
As I walk to the kitchen, I pass the mural of the yellow submarine, glance inside the library laden with tapestries and drums, cross the lounge filled with discarded kegs and cups, descend the stone staircase and sidestep the 7-foot aralia palm. Pounds of tubers, tofu, garlic and chickpeas are already set out on the kitchen counters. Benji has his ski goggles on, ready to dice the onions. The beer's cold, and Janis Joplin's wailing from the nearby pool room. Within minutes, the six of us forget our tight schedules and our social differences and are elbow-deep in curries and conversation.
Three hours later the house smells of spices, the soup and samosas are steaming, and 50 hungry people have gathered in the dining room. By the time most of us have served ourselves, we've run out of plates and my neighbor is eating off a Tupperware lid. The vegetable masala is an unqualified success. Midway through dinner, everyone stops eating and applauds the cooking crew. I silently thank the housing draw gods for not assigning me my first choice.
A year ago, I was studying English literature under Oxford spires, imagining senior year in a suite surrounded by my closest friends. I never pictured my sophisticated, Manhattanite drawmates in the vegetarian co-op known as the Enchanted Broccoli Forest. One of four University-owned houses on Lake Lagunita, EBF was established in 1990 by former Phi Psi residents who lost their house in the 1989 earthquake. These days, it has an (undeserved) reputation for illegal drug use and is best known for its raucous Wednesday-night happy hours and hippie residents. Our friends laughed when they heard about our housing assignment and said we'd never fit in. We set out to prove them wrong.
I used to hate cooking, and now I look forward to Thursdays in the kitchen. I used to be intimidated by this house, and now I consider it my home. Sure, I struggle to keep up with my cleaning chores, and sometimes the five of us -- high heels and all -- realize we aren't quintessential Broccoli Forest material. But every time I help mix the ingredients to an unusual meal, I recognize how each resident contributes to the overall flavor of the house. Students fill the place with artwork, homemade cookies and experimental music.
That's why I'm worried about the effects of the University's capital improvement program. It's a 15-year, $185 million effort launched in 1993 to upgrade student housing and dining facilities "to modern standards." Last summer, EBF was renovated under the plan. The walls were painted white, lights were brightened and blue carpeting was installed. We have new appliances and furnishings in the kitchen, bedrooms and bathrooms. The house may now conform to modern standards, but residents are wary, even suspicious, of the new aesthetic uniformity.
Our co-op's unique ambience is in jeopardy. The harsh lighting reminds me of Wilbur, where I spent my sophomore year. The house doesn't feel as homey as it used to, and we have to be careful not to stain the new carpeting or smudge the walls. And the residents just don't like some of the changes. For example, we used to have lovely, old wooden picnic tables on our patio. In November they disappeared, replaced a little later by wobbly aluminum ones.
The renovations aren't all bad. A new desk is always a plus for a girl trying to write a thesis. But I wish the University had asked us for input before remodeling. That would have fit with the spirit of cooperative living, where open discussion fosters trust. Before the financial manager changes the quarterly board bill, for instance, he consults with us. Before the dairy manager starts ordering a different brand of yogurt, she asks about our preferences. Only seven of Stanford's 78 undergraduate residences are co-ops, and residents and the University should work together to nurture and preserve these remarkable environments.
The thought that this house may lose its individuality because its aesthetics weren't up to University standards is not only sad, it's ominous. Long after my cooking crew graduates and the aralia palm wilts, students still will deserve the chance to see a side of college that is not in the books. It is both the University's and the residents' duty to ensure that the doors of this house remain open to those who never before understood the value of an eclectic group of people pulling together to cook their own meals, clean their own bathrooms and make their home enchanted.
Sonya Schneider, '00, is an English major from San Diego.
