When I first moved to New York City, I came to terms with the fact that my personal bubble would have to be popped on many occasions, from being squashed between two strangers on the subway, to having to squeeze onto an elevator with Parsons students and their gigantic, strange 3D “projects.” However, I was not prepared for complete lack of respect people would have for shared dorm space. Yes I knew that, living in a dorm, I would be sharing a bedroom and a suite with strangers, and that square footage would be slim; no, I did not expect my days to be filled with stolen groceries, hysterical crying, endless sex noises, or anything of that nature.

I currently reside with a roommate who is never here (until the sun is coming up) and three suite mates who never seem to leave. It’s not so much the small amount of space that becomes the issue, but the fact that everyone seems to think they are the only ones who reside in it.

One morning, after my roommate had come home from endless hours of partying, I awoke to her drunkenly vomiting from her bed all over our floor. I sat up, yelled, “GO TO THE BATHROOM!” and watched as she stumbled into the hall. She returned several minutes later, with a jug of water in her arms, and said, “I forgot that we had a bathroom. That’s why I just sat there and puked.”

It was hard not to laugh from the nonsense of it all; there I was, in a barf-filled room that smelled of cheddar popcorn and vodka, with a roommate who could not even form a coherent thought. She hopped back in bed, coddled her gallon and immediately went back to sleep. No clean up, no apologizes, just the rotting puke on our floor. I laid there and wondered how she could be so nonchalant about the whole thing. She had woken me up, barfed on my rug, AND not had the decency to clean it, yet she was the one fast asleep.

Following in suit, since early November, one of my suite mates has decided that the best place to hold her nightly personal phone conversations is in the middle of the tiny kitchen we all share. However, these “conversations” more closely resemble verbal sparring matches, with the first person to make the other burst into tears being claimed victor. To make matters worse, this particular suite mate speaks little to no English, meaning I cannot even understand the drama unfolding in my kitchen every night. One Tuesday, at two o’clock in the morning to be exact, she began punching the walls of the kitchen and screaming at the top of her lungs in Chinese. (To whom, I’ve learned over these few months, is a boyfriend from back home.) She began to hyperventilate as she stood and stomped and punched until every one of us was awake. Now, I would feel bad if this wasn’t such a regular occurrence, but there are only so many times I can ask someone if they are okay without them knowing what the hell I am saying.

However, I too am guilty of being a bad roommate on occasion. I tend to forget that I live in a very small space with very thin walls and that maybe not everyone wants to hear my rendition of “We Belong Together” at four o’clock in the morning. I am always ashamed and apologize the morning after a night of belting tunes. And though an apology doesn’t give them back their hours of sleep lost, I still feel they deserve one. It’s an issue of respect.

While there are annoyances with having roommates and living in the dorms, there are benefits as well. I would not have met a majority of my closest friends had I opted for having my own apartment. The dorm environment really fosters a sense of community, which is essential when you are coming to a new school in a new city without knowing anyone. It also provides the opportunity to mingle and mix with students from other divisions who take classes with me. But there are many times when I wish I could have, at the very least, chosen whom I would have been living with.

This disrespectful behavior isn’t just found in the dorms. There are times when I am on campus and I have to repeat “excuse me” four or five times before maneuvering around groups of people blocking the only entrance to the building. Or when I am at Panera with a group of friends and we have to squeeze into a tiny booth because there is a woman sitting by herself (not even eating, just on her computer) at the largest table. Instances of this blatant disregard for others can be found in almost every aspect of life in the city. You always hear New Yorkers being described as unfriendly and cold and perhaps this is why. No one wants to feel disrespected, even in regards to these small things.

The solution lies in recognizing that we all share this city, these buildings, these rooms. We cannot parade around and act like we are the only ones affected by the actions we make, even in our own homes. It seems like a great deal of censorship when we cannot even be “free” in our own rooms, but then again, we chose this city. There is (or at least should be) an unwritten contract that you sign when you move here stating that from now on, the space you occupy is no longer your own. The very least you can do is hold respect for the people who share it with you.