It’s 1 a.m. on a Wednesday night. You’re curled up in the common room, attempting to plow through a bottomless coursepack for 9 a.m. section tomorrow. But it’s no use—that thumping bass won’t let you concentrate. Clearly, your roommates are starting the weekend early—that is, your invisible roommates on the other side of the fire door.

We come to know our neighbors well here. Such is the reality of Harvard residential life, where paper-thin walls and N - 1 housing often force us to live a little too close for comfort. Since ancient wood paneling rarely functions as an effective sound barrier, we’re left little choice but to cohabitate, at least aurally, with the suite next door.

This is not always the happiest of arrangements. As darkness falls and each Harvard student tromps back to his or her bed, desk and chair, the last thing many of us want is the sound of a near-total stranger taking up space. No matter the room number, from the River to the Quad, everyone seems to share a wall with the most absurd of characters. They scream at inhumanly high pitches, they cackle and guffaw, they blast ’90s pop into the wee hours (especially during Reading Period). Some of us respond in kind—by yelling for quiet, throwing sneakers at the wall, or just learning to grit our teeth and bear it.

Many of us go an entire year without ever meeting our counterparts in the flesh. Still, we grow to know their habits, whether we want to or not. As they sing in the shower or tell ribald stories, we’re part of the audience. And even though we don’t bother to learn their name or face, sometimes we can’t help but cock an ear. Once in a while, when half of a phone conversation wafts by or an argument rages on, I, for one, can’t help but pause, listen... and judge.

While my roommates and I are quick to offer commentary on the conversations we overhear, none of us have bothered to walk down the stairs, climb up the next flight over and strike up some neighborly conversation face-to-face. It just isn’t done. Maybe most people decide that the source of all that ruckus couldn’t possibly be worth knowing, and don’t bother to find out. But I think there’s another explanation.

Everyone knows that, deep down, they’re a messy tangle of faults and imperfections. Many of us—me included—spend boundless energy pretending we’re an exception to that rule. We put our best face forward, and hope no one will bother to probe underneath.

In a world where perfectly manicured individuals each vie for perfection, it’s easy to forget that fellow Harvard students are flawed, too. From the IOP to English section, from Annenberg to the Spee, everyone here seems to have it all figured out. Even when they choose to get out of control—enter alcohol and drugs—many still make that choice based on an acute awareness of the image they’ll be presenting to everyone else. Many won’t drop their daily charade until they’re back, late at night, in the safe-and-sound suites they call home. When no one’s there to see us, we stop wondering how we look to the world, and the parts of us we try so hard to deny finally come out.

Across the fire door, that someone who’s yelling or singing or laughing probably isn’t worried about what you’re thinking, for the first time all day. That’s why it’s so tempting to pause—because (at the risk of sounding creepy) what you hear when no one knows you’re listening is often as real as it gets. Why would we bother to introduce ourselves, when the self-censoring person who would answer the door couldn’t be half as human—or interesting—as that disembodied voice?

And, as long as that voice’s owner is just another stranger, judging mercilessly might seem like fair game. But before jumping to conclusions about the unedited dialogue going on next door, consider the individual standing just a few feet away. Instead of latching on to moments of vulnerability—the ones where she sounds stupid or desperate or embarrassed—realize that the urge to tear her down comes from our own insecurities. Ultimately, no matter whose side of the fire door you’re on, we’re all just people—with secrets we hope no one will hear.


Molly M. Strauss ‘11, a Crimson editorial writer, lives in Winthrop House.