The Call of Duty
The Call of Duty
By Lily Brown
Hi. I’m Lily Brown—yes, that Lily Brown. Former Your Magazine Creative Director and Managing Editor. I know you’ve missed me (and trust me, I’ve missed you). Even though I graduated this past spring and passed the editorial torch, YM will always have a piece of my heart.
But running a magazine wasn’t my only campus gig. When I wasn’t editing layouts or juggling deadlines, I was roaming Emerson’s Little Building halls as a Resident Assistant (RA). I like to say I put the LB in Little Building (AKA Lily’s Building, AKA Lily Brown). And yes, I actually say this.
Now I’m 23, a grad student, and somehow back in a first-year dorm. Again. I swear, Emerson keeps pulling me back.
Believe it or not, this is my third year as an RA, which I think makes me an honorary “Super Senior.” My friends are working 9–5s and paying rent, while I’m still doing rounds, confiscating candles, and reminding 18-year-olds that yes, the laundry machines actually do cost money.
This year, though, I’m embracing my Big Sister Era—part mentor, part chaos coordinator, part ghost haunting the residence halls. Think less “RA with a clipboard” and more “older cousin who’s seen things.” This blog? It’s not a lecture hall—it’s more like the common room couch, where we can talk about surviving Emerson, balancing burnout, and maybe even finding joy in the housing madness.
Don’t Cry During Rounds
If you’ve ever done rounds, you know the vibes can be pretty unpredictable. You run into everything from loud music and stolen exit signs to folks getting trapped in the elevator or someone microwaving a frozen cookie. (Please don’t do this to me… again.)
My first year, I was so stressed trying to be the perfect RA that I cried after my first noise complaint. Like—actual tears, in my tiny dorm room, over a group of freshmen doing a sing-along at 1 a.m. After two weeks of training, you think you’re ready. We cover everything: keys, lockouts, transports, emotional crises, the history of Emerson RAism. And then, when the phone actually rings for the first time, all that training just evaporates, and you’re left standing there, heart racing, wondering how to sound like you have it together.
I remember that first night walking to the LB blue common room. My feet got heavier as I approached this guy who was playing guitar while his friends screamed lyrics at the top of their lungs. And there I was in my sheep PJs and RA badge, about to break the bad news that quiet hours were now in effect. It wasn’t that I wasn’t confident. I just felt… bad.
Here they were, living their best college lives—singing, laughing, having their little main character moment—and I was the side character saying, “Hey guys, can we bring it down a little?” It felt like being the fun police, but in Ugg Fluff Yeah slippers. You’re part authority figure, part therapist, part big sibling, part accidental villain. You’re supposed to have it all together, but I felt like I didn’t.
No one really talks about how strange that first month feels. You’re expected to be a calm, collected adult, while internally you’re thinking, What if I mess up? (Unlikely, but the anxiety does not care. The RA stress dreams are real.) Eventually, you adjust. You learn when to laugh it off, when to take a breath, and when to call for backup. But that first moment of chaos? Yeah, it’s a lot. And it’s okay that it’s a lot.
But hey—your girl pulled through, and that Brooks Walker Rising Star of the Year ERA award isn’t just handed out like free t-shirts at Orientation. Being overwhelmed just became part of the deal. I learned to cry, laugh, and then do rounds anyway. Because yeah, sometimes people break the rules, but sometimes they just need someone to show up, sheep PJs and all, and remind them that college is messy, and that’s okay.
Now, when I stroll up to a room blasting “Gangnam Style” at 3 a.m. (true story), I’m like, “Hey besties, love the energy, but let’s take it down two notches, yeah?” That’s what we call character development. And trust me, I see your Fizzes. I know the memes. RA-ing isn’t about catching you; it’s about catching up with the community, in all its Emersonian glory. You will mess up sometimes. You’ll burn popcorn. You’ll forget your ID. You’ll maybe even call your RA because you locked yourself out after a shower in the Genny Neutch. (Happens to the best of us.) Just laugh it off, learn the lesson, and carry on.
Surviving a Triple Weekend Duty
This week, I’m on duty three nights out of seven. Woof. That’s not a job—that’s a lifestyle. Being “on duty” means walking the building, handling lockouts, and responding to whatever the night brings. Sometimes it’s quiet. Other times… not so much. Here’s the typical Saturday night progression:
8:00 PM – Check in. Perform the first round. Everything’s calm.
10:30 PM – Someone’s locked out.
12:00 AM – Another lockout.
1:45 AM – Noise complaint turned into a community standards issue.
3:00 AM – Existential dread wrapping up the incident report.
Sleep? Never heard of her. Between grad classes, RA life, and trying to maintain a social life (somehow), your girl is a restless RA. But I find the role so rewarding, and I do think I’ve gotten the hang of it now. You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to keep showing up—to your residents, your friends, and yourself.
It’s chaotic, yes, but it’s also weirdly magical watching a building full of students figuring out how to live. Friendships form, Max snacks are shared, and The Godfather really does echo through the common room like some strange film school rite of passage.
The Freshman Anthem of Being Locked Out
At this point, I should be sponsored by Master Key because I’ve seen every kind of lockout: the “I just stepped out for five seconds” lockout, the “I thought my roommate was home” lockout, the “I swear I left my key right here” lockout (you didn’t).
No judgment—even I’ve been there. The real tragedy? The phone call. The dreaded Summit ringtone that jolts me awake at 2 a.m., followed by my zombie shuffle to the RA office, keys jingling like the Ghost of Campus Present. And trust and believe I’ll be there to open the door for you. We’re students too—it just might take me a second to throw on a bra, run down to the office for your key, sprint back up to your room, unlock the door, and return it. “RA do your job” challenge? Accepted, fam.
If you see me in the hallway, please say hi. I promise I’m friendly, even post-lockout. We’re all just trying to make it through this school year, one duty night (and maybe one Dunkin run) at a time.
So, consider me your unofficial RA spirit guide—the RA who lived (barely), the chosen one of LB. (Sorry Harry Potter joke not funny. Did not laugh.)