As much as I hoped it would be, my first semester of college was nothing like the made-for-TV movie I’d envisioned. I left my dorm door open like my mom told me to, but nobody stopped by. Students sat six feet apart in the dining hall, and, if you wanted to converse with a stranger, your only feasible solution was to shout. Even the Student Involvement Fair, which I’d imagined being the epicenter of student life, was online. Gone were the sweaty limbs pushing past each other in the gym, the carefully painted posters, the obnoxious upperclassmen desperate for names on their sign-up sheet. Instead, it was just me in pajama pants under my twin-XL covers, staring at a screen of Zoom links.
And so, I did the thing. I signed up for a few clubs I’d probably never attend, joined email lists I still can't unsubscribe from and closed my laptop with a sigh. Out of curiosity, I opened it again — this time, to conduct a quick search for one club that I hadn’t seen: the radio club. All I found was an outdated website, a graveyard littered with the faces of executive members long graduated and radio shows long cancelled. Regardless, I emailed, not expecting a response.
Nearly six weeks later, I got a response inviting me to join the first WJHU meeting of the year, that Monday at 8 p.m. in the radio room. And so, at 7:45 p.m., I set out to find the radio room.
Down a long, empty hallway, a sign reading WJHU beckoned like an oasis. Music poured from a half-open door, its frame studded with generations of stickers. Inside, about ten people sat on worn-out couches, surrounded by stacks of CDs and walls draped with posters from shows long past. I slid into the last empty spot next to a tall, redheaded girl in a sweater named Willa, who I would soon learn was the only other freshman there. Though we didn’t know it then, we’d become co-presidents of WJHU in just a few short years.
We started with the classic WJHU icebreaker: What are you listening to? As we went around the circle, we were serenaded by our selections through the large speaker in the corner. We learned that the co-presidents, who shared a couch that was later dubbed the “Presidential Futon,” had decided to revive the club after years of its extinction — which is why it had been nearly impossible to join. We talked about starting podcasts and getting a radio station going, about our hopes and dreams for where WJHU could take us.
After that, I never had a free Monday night. Each week, I slid into that same empty seat and shared what I was listening to — and they did the same. We had game nights consisting not of games but of trading niche music, arguing who had the most underground taste. We spent days on the Beach with a large speaker, we shared playlists, we marked our heights on the wall of the radio room with a Sharpie, and, slowly, strangers became friends. One Monday, upon entering the radio room, I realized I had found the place I belonged.
My freshman year culminated in WJHU’s first annual Spring Show, a day-long concert featuring student artists on the Beach. It was characterized, then as now, by humid late-April sunshine, hours of loafing on the beach and good, or perhaps mediocre, music.
It is astounding to me how much WJHU has grown since that day. At the beginning of this year, Willa and I shared the Presidential Futon and watched new members spill into the radio room and pile onto the floor. I couldn’t help but think of my very first time in that room when only nine or ten people sat in a small circle.
As always, my senior year finished with my favorite day of the year: Spring Show. Willa and I took turns introducing the selected bands, gazing out at a growing audience. But halfway through, the sunshine gave way to a torrential downpour. The crowd fled for cover while Willa and I attempted to cover the speakers and other equipment with tarps, but it was too late.
As we cleaned up the stage, we discussed if there was anything that could be done to save the event. Two of the artists — both WJHU freshmen — hadn’t got to perform their set, so we called and asked if they’d do a private set for the club. A few hours later, I wiggled my way into an overflowing practice room to watch two of our own: Lil Teach and Sclera. As the tiny concert ended in enthusiastic applause, I looked around and, suddenly, I was there again, in the radio room for the first time, sharing music.
It felt like our first meeting of the year, when the radio room flooded with strangers that would soon become staple figures in my weekly routine. It felt like the morning of Spring Show, setting up the stage and blowing up giant beach balls together. It felt like that first day I traversed hallways to find the radio room, on the precipice of something inexplicably special.
As the younger members of WJHU hugged each other in celebration, I realized that I did more than just find a place to belong: I made a place for others to belong.
Molly Green is a senior from Orange County, Calif., and she is graduating with a degree in Writing Seminars.
