Residence Assistants. Otherwise known as RAs. I won’t lie; there was a point when I thought I wanted to be one. My friend and I both applied, and thankfully were not selected. I don’t know what I was thinking, because I could never be one. If someone woke me up because they locked themselves out of their room at 3 a.m. I would tell them to sleep in the hallway.
My first RA was great. She never got us in trouble and we saw her at most parties we went to. When I had to write 10 things I could do without alcohol—long story, not worth explaining—she laughed along with me as I filled my list with activities such as “throwing eggs,” and “hard drugs.”
When she studied abroad my freshman year spring, we were assigned a new RA. She could have been good, I suppose. To be honest we didn’t give her a chance. And it didn’t help when she introduced herself by jumping in the center of the room shaking her spirit-fingers. The floor I lived on freshman year was filled with the stereotypical freshman college students. We partied too much and broke stuff, simply because we could. Needless to say for some unknown reason she left towards the end of the semester, and we didn’t have an RA after that.
I live in the same residence hall as a sophomore, because I was stupid and thought it would be a good idea. I’m indifferent towards my current RA. She sings loudly and tries to have conversations with me even though I am not her friend, but she hasn’t yelled at me so she is fine in my book.
Being an RA would be hard, and I definitely could not do it. So I have respect for them. It’s strange that they’re automatically supposed to take on the role as the “bad guy,” when they don’t care what you do most of the time.