This story reminded me of something that happened to me. This was in my first year in university, in early 2020, in the middle of winter, during a weekend where I stayed in my university’s dorm. It was freezing outside but cozy in my dorm. I was in my bed and unable to sleep because I needed to use the bathroom. I finally convinced myself that I needed to leave my cozy blanket and go to the shared washroom outside my dorm. I checked the time on my phone, and it was around 12:30 am.

I took my keycard and my glasses, and I didn’t bring my phone. After using the bathroom, I came back to my dorm to realize the keycard didn’t work. It was a long weekend, so my roommate had left to go back to her parents’ house.

I remembered that my roommate had experienced something similar to me. It was also during the weekends during the fall, but that time, I was with my parents. She woke up to find that she had started her period and panicked out the door. Due to her panic, she ran straight out, didn’t even wear her pants, and didn’t bring her keycard. She knew the floor deans had a master key because something similar had happened to her friend on a different floor (the first floor). So, she went to our floor dean, and the dean opened the door and said in a gentle voice that she wasn’t allowed to use the master key because she couldn’t tell if my roommate was an outsider. (Yep, an outsider with no pants and only a shirt and underwear.) Then, she closed the door on my roommate. Distressed, she went to the first floor and, luckily, the first-floor dean was there. After hearing the situation, the first-floor dean opened the door of our room for her. 

It was shocking that our floor dean cared so little; during orientation, she gave us her phone number and said if there was an emergency we could call her. She seemed so caring and turned out to be so not caring. To be honest, I’m not sure what her actual responsibilities were, but she did say she was responsible for our floor and would do her best to help with any issues we faced in our residence and outside during orientation.

Still hopeful, I decided to ask her anyway. I knocked, and she opened the door. I told her of my situation, holding out my keycard so she could see it. Then, I asked if she could open my room for me.

Dean: “I can’t; I’m not allowed to because you might not actually live here.”

I looked at the thin pajamas and slippers I was wearing and the keycard I was holding. 

Me: “It’s past midnight in the middle of winter, snowing and negative degrees outside, and I’m in pajamas and slippers. I also have a keycard in my hand. I can’t possibly be an outsider.”

She said in her gentle voice:

Dean: “If you have the keycard, you need to go to [Building] to get the keycard fixed.”

The thing is that [Building] was not attached to my residence, and sure, it was only a minute-long run, but it was winter and the snow was deep, so it would probably be longer, and once I went outside the residence, I couldn’t come back unless I had a working keycard, meaning I would be locked out. I also didn’t have my phone with me.

Me: “Can you just use the master key? I don’t feel comfortable going out in this weather at this time of the night. You can also see I have my keycard right here; it just suddenly doesn’t work anymore.” 

Dean: “I can’t do anything. You have to go to [Building] for them to get your keycard fixed.”

Me: “Can you give me their phone number, then? I don’t have my phone, but I can call them using the resident phone.”

Dean: “I don’t know their number. You need to go to [Building] and let them fix your keycard.”

And then, she closed the door on me.

I am so thankful that, deep down, I still think locking myself outside after midnight in winter, where the snow was deep and the ground was covered in ice, with thin clothing and no phone, was a stupid idea. I’m so thankful I chose to listen to it. The reason will be more clear as the story goes on.

I decided to do what my roommate did and go to the first floor. But I’m not that lucky; the first-floor dean wasn’t there. 

Because I was too shy and so upset by how the dean refused me, I didn’t want to go find her again. I was thinking about making a run for it, but when I opened the door, it was freezing cold. I had never been outside this late at night, and I was a young female who lacked self-defense training. 

So, I went back to my floor (the second floor) and cried in the hallway. I tried asking random students in the kitchen area for help, but they both said they were unsure of what to do. The idea to just make a run for it was more and more tempting because it was only a one-minute run. But I was also scared.

After a long time, I remembered at the back of my head that during orientation, I read somewhere that I could press zero on any phone in my residence and someone from [Building] would help me. I tried it, and someone picked up. I cried as I told them what had happened. Someone did come with a master key and got me back into my room.

The next morning, I went to get my keycard fixed — in proper winter wear. It was freezing, and I was shivering. I always thought I needed to go past [Building #2] in order to reach [Building] and was shocked to find [Building #2] locked. It took me thirty minutes to find [Building]’s phone number, and the receptionist told me I could walk around [Building #2] to reach [Building]. It took that long because their website was confusing, and I didn’t bring gloves, so my hands froze after a while. The snow wasn’t that deep because someone seemed to have shoveled it, but it was very slippery. It scared me to think what would have happened if I had actually chosen to make a run for it during the night.

It bothered me so much that I actually went to the student center once it opened and asked for a manager. I told the manager my experience and my roommate’s. I could tell he didn’t really care. I was in tears, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

I retold him what happened, and during the process, he just had fake empathy. He kept saying he understood and trying to redirect the topic.

Me: “I was in pajamas and slippers and holding my keycard, and the dean still wouldn’t help me and said I might not live there.”

Manager: “Well, it might be that she couldn’t tell if you were actually living there.”

I just stared at him before raising my voice.

Me: “It’s the middle of winter, and I have my keycard with me! I couldn’t possibly be from outside the building!” 

Manager: “Okay, I agree. Well, it already happened. What do you think we can do to avoid situations, so it doesn’t happen to other people in the future?”

This just kept happening. I told him that the dean should have cared more and not suggested that someone go outside in the middle of winter in unfit clothing. He just brushed it off and kept trying to get me to answer, “What should we do to avoid this from happening in the future?” 

He was clearly on the side of the dean and kept finding excuses for her actions, even though he agreed that given what my roommate and I were wearing and holding when we were locked out, it was clear we lived there.

Then, I told him:

Me: “If I ran out that night and found the doors locked, my plan was to run to [Fast Food Place ten minutes away] and ask them to call 911.”

That was when he actually seemed to care, and he immediately jumped in:

Manager: “There is no need to involve the police.”

And then he asked the same question again about how to avoid this happening again. Finally, he asked whether I wanted an apology from the dean. 

I thought about it.

Me: “I want her to apologize to me.”

He promised it would happen. It did not happen and will never happen.

Because he asked so many times, I did make several suggestions, including that floor deans should only be people who care and that my floor dean was unfit to be a floor dean. I pointed out that keycards shouldn’t have this issue, and the floor dean should know what to do in these situations besides just telling people to go outside the building in the middle of winter in unfit clothing. He just brushed off all of my ideas. I finally suggested:

Me: “You should probably put up signs reminding us that we can dial zero to reach [Building].”

Manager: “That would be okay.”

So, the only difference after my complaint is that there is a paper on the floor dean’s door with [Building]’s full phone number. The phone is on the other side of the hallway, so good luck memorizing that number.

I know much more now. There were so many things I could have done differently — including offering to tell the dean what was in my room and unlock my phone. I also could’ve made them appear in the news; they were a big and well-known university.

Anyway, please, if you ever get into a similar situation, don’t ever put yourself in danger. If someone tells you to lock yourself out in the freezing winter with only pajamas and slippers, don’t do it.

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My roommate during my freshman year of college grew up fairly rich and spoiled but, thankfully, not as entitled as some kids in her position can get. Despite our different lifestyles, we generally got along; we had our differences, but we were able to respect each other’s personal space as much as possible while being crammed in a typical college dorm room.

For the first month of school, she would go home to her parents’ house every weekend with all of her dirty laundry. I didn’t think anything of this at first; lots of college kids don’t know how to do laundry, but apparently, that wasn’t her problem.

She came into our dorm one Thursday afternoon in a bad mood.

Me: “Hey, [Roommate]. Something bugging you?”

Roommate: “My parents are going on vacation this weekend.”

Me: “Cool for them. Where are they going?”

Roommate: “It doesn’t matter. They’re not going to be home, and I can’t go with them.”

Me: “Your first weekend on campus! If you need ideas on things to do, I can see if there’s anything fun going on.”

Roommate: “I don’t care about that! I’ll find something to do. But how am I going to wash my clothes?”

Me: “There’s a laundry room down in the basement. I can show you where it is if you’ve never been down there, and I can show you how the machines work if you don’t know what to do.”

Roommate: “I know how to wash them; I do my own laundry at home. I just can’t wash my clothes here because what if someone takes them?”

Me: “I don’t think anybody cares. As long as you get your clothes out of the machine right away when they’re done, all the girls in the building are good about not messing with other people’s stuff.”

Roommate: *Scoffing* “Really, [My Name]? My shirts all cost at least $60. All of my jeans are around $150. What if someone steals them to sell them on Craigslist or something?”

Me: “If you’re really concerned, there’s a table and a few chairs in the laundry room. You can always bring your laptop with you and sit down there. I do that sometimes if I don’t feel like going up and down the stairs that many times.”

She gave me a groan but decided to let me show her down to the laundry room. I showed her the machines and the table and chairs.

Roommate: “I guess I can wash them here, but it’s so dark, and those chairs are so uncomfortable. I couldn’t stand sitting down here for ninety minutes. Maybe you can sit down here and watch my clothes for me since you already do that anyway? I can probably pay you $10, and you can use your detergent and dryer sheets so I don’t need to buy anything?”

Me: “I’ll do that on one condition. You have to come down with me to set up the washing machine the way you want it, and then you have to come down ninety minutes later to take your clothes out of the dryer. I can switch them over from the washing machine to the dryer if you tell me what settings you want the dryer on.”

She agreed to that deal, and she actually held up her end of the deal. Every month or so, her parents would go on vacation, and I would get an easy $10 to “guard her clothes” while I washed my own laundry. I also got a private, quiet ninety minutes of study time because we always did our laundry on Saturday morning before anyone else in the building was awake enough to do laundry. Not a bad deal in my opinion.

I’m an undergrad, living in the university dorm. We are required to pay far too much for dining hall food, so I’m there a lot to get my money’s worth. The dining hall is terrible — chronically understaffed, spoiled food, etc. I could go on, but that’s not the point of this story.

A young lady was working the brunch rush on her own, and I hadn’t seen her before. She was being more diligent than most, maybe because she wasn’t yet resigned to the futility of effort in a place that sets you up to fail.

I looked at the overly dry, crusty, congealed oatmeal. (Yes, I’m the person who relies on oatmeal. I’m autistic, so the lack of texture and the sameness allow me to eat.) My wrist hurt due to a chronic disease, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to scoop it.

I’ll call the student worker Angel here.

Me: “Excuse me. Would you be able to mix some hot water into this?”

Angel: “Oh, sorry, could you repeat that? What about hot water?”

Me: “Oh, actually, you’re too busy… Would you mind scooping some oatmeal in my bowl? My wrists hurt.”

Angel: “Sure!” *Does so* “What was the hot water for?”

Me: “The oatmeal dries out, so they mix in hot water. But I’m adding oat milk, so this is perfect.”

Angel: “Okay. Let me know if you need anything else!”

I returned a few minutes later, and she was still the only worker in sight.

Me: “Excuse me, um, are there any other workers around? You are really busy, but I want to ask someone to make coffee.”

She looked around helplessly and told me she’d try to find someone. I sat down to eat. Sometime later, to my surprise, she came to find me in the dining room.

Angel: “Did you still need help with coffee? What kind did you want? I’ll go get it if you tell me how you take it.”

Me: “Oh, I can get it myself. It’s just that it was empty. Well, I think only the regular was empty.”

Angel: “OH! Oh, we are out of coffee. Okay.”

The consideration to help me without prying as to what my medical condition was, and going above and beyond to try and take my coffee order while she single-handedly ran a cafeteria at, like, eighteen blew me away. 

I went to go ask her name and ask what she liked from the student store so I could get her something. She expected me to complain about the wait for coffee and was totally thrown off.

She was so flattered and pleased that I appreciated her, and she told me my words were more than enough. Her whole body language changed, which was very rewarding to see. Now I know her name, though, and can say hi when I see her!

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My younger sister has had glasses since she was a baby — like ten months old. She’s extremely farsighted, so her glasses make her eyes look much bigger than they really are. She can barely see without her glasses, but her glasses are always somewhat heavy and can get uncomfortable, so despite that, she sometimes takes breaks from wearing them.

When she was little, like three to six years old, she had trouble saying the word “glasses”, so she’d call them her “eyes”. It made sense to me as a seven-year-old since her eyes looked so much smaller when she took her glasses off. This would lead to a lot of funny stares when we went out in public and my sister, who was otherwise quite an eloquent toddler, would announce loudly that she was going to take her eyes off and no one in my family would bat an eye.

As my sister grew up and added the word “glasses” to her vocabulary, most people forgot about the time when she’d tell us she’d taken off her eyes — most people, except for our grandmother.

My sister just finished her freshman year of college. She still wears glasses almost all the time, but she has contacts for special occasions when she’s going out. She tried contacts for a year in high school but found them too uncomfortable to do every day.

My sister started dating for the first time this year. One day, when she was with her boyfriend, she had a massive headache. She suffers from random headaches sometimes, but this was a pretty bad one and the first one she’d had around her boyfriend. She was basically crying because of the pain, so he helped her Facetime our grandma. (She first tried our parents, but both were busy and didn’t answer the phone.)

Our grandma’s first question was:

Grandma: “Did you take your eyes off recently?”

Sister: “No, I’m not wearing my eyes now.”

That was the only part her boyfriend could hear. Her boyfriend was already pretty panicked, and he was so shocked that he started to look up their school’s emergency mental health hotline; he was convinced my sister was going insane or something.

It took my sister about ten minutes to convince him that she was totally fine, which took her mind off the headache for long enough that it went away.

When I first moved away from home to study, I started out living in student housing. We all had our own rooms, but every floor shared a kitchen and common room. In Sweden, this is commonly referred to as a “student corridor”. There is no adult supervision, and people are expected to take care of themselves. I had a corridor neighbor who had, like most of us, just moved away from home. It was [Boy]’s first time on his own, and he was miserable.

We had to teach this poor boy EVERYTHING. It started with the mystery of why the plates in the communal kitchen were always greasy, even when they’d been put back into the cupboard as clean. It turned out that [Boy] didn’t know he had to use hot water to wash the dishes; he just rinsed them off and put them back.

He spent the first six months complaining about how he was always running out of money. This was because he didn’t know how to cook. The rest of us lived on the usual student diet of oatmeal and cheap pasta dishes and treated ourselves to a pizza on weekends. [Boy] got fast food every single day. I could feed myself for a month on his weekly meal budget.

I once found him in the laundry room, staring dumbfounded at a washing machine. He had no idea how to do laundry. I had to take him shopping for laundry detergent because he didn’t know what it was. He thought he could just put ordinary soap in there. 

To his credit, [Boy] was very grateful for the help and very frustrated that no one had taught him how to do all these things before he moved out.

Then, his mother came to visit. He happily introduced all of us as his friends. Then, she came up to me.

Mother: “I’ve heard so much about you! I’m so glad to finally meet my son’s girlfriend.”

Me: “Sorry, girlfriend?”

Mother: “Yes, [Boy] has been telling me all about how well you’re taking care of him.”

Boy: “Mom, I’ve already told you, we’re not together. She’s just been showing me how to do stuff. We’re friends, that’s all.”

Mother: “But you told me how good she is at cooking, and how she did your laundry, and—”

Me: “No, let me stop you there. We’re cooking together sometimes, but that’s so he can learn how it’s done. Same with the laundry; he didn’t know how to do it, so I showed him. People are supposed to know how to do this stuff for themselves when they move away from home!”

Mother: “How would my son be expected to know how to do housework?”

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe his parents should have taught him? Mine did!”

Boy: “She’s right, Mom. I should have known this before I moved out.”

Mother: “I guess I just expected you to have a girlfriend by now. You’re handsome enough. You’re going to be an engineer; you’ll make a lot of money someday!”

Boy: “And [My Name] is going to be a doctor. She still knows how to do her own laundry!”

Mother: “That’s different! She’s not a boy!”

He really was a sweet guy, and we did end up dating for a while a year or so later, but unfortunately, his mother was a dealbreaker.

After we graduated, I was invited to his wedding. He introduced me to his new wife as “the one who taught me how to be a man”.