First Years & Fire Alarms
First Years & Fire Alarms
Written by Lily Brown
There’s a special kind of chaos that only happens in college dorms at 3 a.m. The kind that involves half-asleep freshmen, mismatched pajama pants, one brave soul holding their emotional support Jellycat, and me—your exhausted Resident Assistant—trying to figure out which microwave committed arson this time. Yes, friends. This is the story of The Night I Fought the Fire Alarm (and Won).
(Official RA Disclaimer: I am required to say here to always treat every alarm as real because, honestly, we don’t know if it’s false or not. Better safe than sorry, right?)
You know those “Days Without Incident” signs they have in construction sites? We have one too. Ours says “Days Without a Fire Alarm,” written in dry-erase marker on a whiteboard inside the RA office. The number rarely gets above seven. Sometimes we hit double digits and start to feel cocky, like “Wow, maybe we are growing as a community.” Then boom. Someone burns popcorn and the counter resets. Again. We erase that 10 with tears in our eyes and a fresh marker stroke of shame. As if that’s not enough, we even had scheduled fire drills this week because apparently the universe thinks irony is funny. Yeah, yeah. Stop, drop, and roll your eyes.
This semester alone, we’ve had so many fire alarms that I’m starting to develop a sixth sense for when one’s about to happen, like some kind of RA Spidey-sense. A premonition. My eyelid twitches. The hallway lights flicker. Somewhere, a bag of kettle corn meets its fiery end. And then it happens—the world’s loudest, most soul-violating sound blasts through the building. Suddenly I’m awake, regretting every life choice that led me to being responsible for getting almost one thousand residents out of the building.
Honestly, every alarm brings out humanity in all its forms. You’ve got:
The Panickers, sprinting out of their dorms like they’re trying to make it to the Deli before it closes.
The Philosophers, standing still and asking, “Wait, do we really have to go outside?”
The Sleepwalkers, who somehow grab a single shoe and nothing else.
And, of course, the Influencers, who film it for the memes, and post Fizzes with captions like, “Not the fire drill 😭😭😭.”
And me? I’m the (reluctant) RA who is booking it down to the lobby, praying no one set an actual fire.
Forget heartbreak or roommate drama. Let me tell you something—burnt food is the number one cause of residential despair. It’s popcorn. Always popcorn. Every RA I know has trauma from that smell that lingers like bad decisions. It seeps into vents, walls, souls, and never leaves. Weeks later, I’ll walk into the lounge and still get PTSD (Popcorn Trauma Scent Disorder). It’s like the scent of regret mixed with butter substitute.
Also, living in the Little Building means living with history—like, literal history. I heard a rumor that the pipes haven’t been replaced since the late 1800s (yikes), which means they’ve probably seen things. Between the ancient plumbing, constant road work, and walls thinner than a Trident gum wrapper, I’m not surprised half our alarms are false ones. It’s like the building itself gets bored and wants attention. Sometimes, I swear I can hear it whisper, “You thought you could sleep tonight? Think again.” We love her. We hate her. We call her home.
LB Fire Safety 101 (RA Edition)
They say “bad things come in threes”—and so does the fire alarm sequence. Bright white lights flash, the pager comes on, and the Lady of LB announces the emergency. If your floor alarm doesn’t keep going after the third round, you’re safe to stay put. (Don’t just stick your head out to “see what’s going on.” Trust your instincts and pay attention.)
As RAs, we always have to respond if we’re in the building. It doesn’t matter if we’re on office/in community hours or if we’re not on duty, we’re required to help facilitate safety measures. I feel like Dwight in that one episode of The Office. Remember when he said, “Last week I gave a fire safety talk. And nobody paid any attention. People learn in a lot of different ways, but experience is the best teacher.”
So, “what's the procedure, everyone?” We could all take a note from Michael Scott and “stay f*cking calm,” but let’s be real—that’s way easier said than done when alarms are blaring, people are panicking, and you’re still trying to find your socks. I've even had “a moment” trying to locate literally any pair of sweatpants to throw over my booty shorts before leaving my room. As RAs, our role isn’t just to be calm; it’s to set the tone for calm. When everyone else is freaking out, residents look to you not because you have all the answers, but because you’re the one who knows what to do next.
First things first is knowing how to get out of the building and leave safely. Elevators are down during this period because evacuation protocol views them as a potential hazard—not to mention a recipe for disaster. While there are four elevators in LB, there aren’t enough for the almost thousand residents who live here. It would simply take forever for all of us to get down, even if it were more convenient. Of course, if you need accommodations, please connect with Student Accessibility Services or your RD to create a personalized fire safety plan.
But yeah, down the stairs we go. I’m grateful that living in the middle of LB has its perks—I still have to go down some floors, but not as many as uppers (sorry 10, 11, 12, & 13). It’s a lot of people to navigate through, but you’ll get down there before you know it—and maybe even meet some furry ESA friends along the way.
And the way you know it’s really us? We’re the ones wearing the most blindingly reflective vests of all time. Call me Safety Patrol Barbie. Our main goal is keeping the lobby doors open for residents to exit the building, but it’s also our job to make sure no one gets back in until we’re told it’s safe. You’d be surprised how many people I’ve had to shoo away from LB—Doordash drivers, professors, freshmen... In fact, I’ve been so locked into “security mode” that I once even asked a newer RA to peace out. My bad. Still getting to know the team.
And once the all-clear is given? We help residents re-enter calmly, check in with our RDs and team for updates, and take note of any issues (like blocked stairwells, accessibility concerns, or residents who had trouble evacuating). Then comes the best part—the collective sigh of relief when everyone’s safely back inside. Pretty straightforward if you ask me, but it’s really up to you for how smoothly it goes.
And yeah, sometimes you’ll feel like Dwight—over-prepared, under-appreciated, and just trying to keep people safe while everyone else laughs it off. But you’ll also be the one who actually knows what to do when things go sideways.
How to Evacuate in Pajamas (and Still Look Like You Have Your Life Together)
Here’s the thing: when the fire alarm goes off, you never look cool. There’s no way to slay an evacuation. I’ve lost count of how many times it’s caught me completely off guard. Even with my RA badge and my “responsible adult” title, I’ve still marched downstairs in the world’s most embarrassing clothes—usually because laundry day was long overdue and my outfit was... let’s just say, minimalist. But honestly, that’s not the point.
When it comes to fire alarms, the goal isn’t to look good—it’s to get out safely (and ideally, not barefoot). So, what can you do? Keep a “grab ’n go” mindset. You don’t need to be that person trying to take your entire dorm with you, but have your essentials ready. After surviving my fair share, I’ve developed a few RA-tested tips to help you fake composure during the evac:
Grab your key. Always. Otherwise, you’ll be standing outside at 3 a.m. thinking about your warm bed that you are now locked out of. (And yes, I’ll be the one unlocking it. Again.)
Wear shoes. I don’t care if it’s Crocs, slides, or fuzzy slippers—literally anything to protect you from the questionable sidewalk by the T.
Hoodies are your best friend. Trust me, it’s my go-to fashion statement whenever the alarm goes off because you can throw it over whatever tragic combo you’re wearing underneath and it can really save your dignity.
Bring your ID. You’ll need it to tap back in, and I promise that just because the front desk security guard saw you exiting the building negative three seconds ago does not mean they’ll let it slide this time.
Don’t finish cooking. You are not making it better. You are, in fact, the reason we’re all outside. Step away from the stove.
Check in on your people. Even when you’re half-asleep, give your roommate a quick knock or shout. The alarms are loud, but you’d be surprised how many people can sleep through them. Be that person who looks out for others—it’s what builds community (and keeps you both safe).
Make the most of it. You’re outside anyway, so chat with your floormates or meet someone new. Nothing bonds you like shared trauma, and fire alarms are where true dorm friendships are forged.
Bonus points if you can stand there with an iced coffee in hand, like this was your morning routine all along. That’s peak delusion, and I respect it. Back when I was a freshman centuries ago (okay, almost five years ago—barf), I used to book it to Dunkin’ during alarms just to avoid standing in the cold. Consider it a treat-yourself reward for good fire safety habits.
Maybe let’s not set off the fire alarm in the early hours again, yeah?
Look, there’s really nothing else to say except that when the fire alarm goes off, it sucks. You’re either in the middle of the most important thing in your life, that Zoom meeting that never ends, trying so hard to finish homework before the deadline, or simply woken up in the middle of the night by blaring sirens.
There’s always this collective sigh when it’s finally over. The alarm stops, the doors open, and we shuffle back inside like survivors of… well, something dramatic. (War is over! Haha.) Everyone complains, obviously—because complaining is part of the ritual—but we also laugh. And later, when I’m back in my room filling out my “Fire Alarm Incident Report,” I can’t help but smile. Because yeah, it’s exhausting, but it’s also kind of hilarious. Kind of wonderful, in that we’re all in this together way.
When I’m sprinting down the hall, I’m not thinking, “Wow, what a great leadership moment.” What I’m really thinking is, “Please let everyone be safe. Please let this be over soon. Please let me get back to sleep before my 8 a.m.”
So here’s my friendly reminder to you, dear residents: keep your popcorn (and maybe now, your bagels) under supervision. Learn where your nearest exit is (and please stop stealing the signs). Maybe invest in pajama pants you’re proud to be seen in publicly.
Our current record is seven days since our last fire alarm. See you outside, shawty.