A tEp Bildungsroman - Isabella “Boneless” Yu ‘24

The house is full of stories. I aged from newborn to near death in the span of a year. In a way then, the accounts below form a bildungsroman.


A carrot family was born from a single carrot and merged back into one again, albeit haphazardly. It still remains to be answered whether or not the carrot was more content as one being or separated into similar but disjoint entities, each with its own personality. 

The vacuum cleaner was eating all the patterns on the floor, and I had to protect my family from them. But I knew that everyone was going to be safe because even the vacuum monsters are a carefully rehearsed act, of which I am but a player.

The creatures in the black light stairwell showed their fangs as well. Well, one of them was a blue mushroom so it only had its spores to show; it was near evening, so they were just starting to burst. Andy, Jess, and I were lucky to see them. It probably wasn’t a blue mushroom to them though.


In the kitchen.

Spices from all corners of the globe roared into me. Steam billowed from sinks ready to be ravished with the bowels of the meals to come. The house is a carnival, and its kitchen is equally puzzling and extroverted. It babbled into my ear like a boastful child until its laughter ricocheted painfully in my skull. Antares and Mollie were cooking for the inhabitants of this strange world, frying, chop-chop-stirring away. So this is how the cogs of this house turn—through the manpower of its residents. 

Jess had given me a mint chocolate sphere. It turned into goo in my mouth, then a sticky oobleck-y substance that fought its way down my throat. Being in that kitchen gave fuel to its struggle, prompting me to back away. Coughing, I crawled up to 23 to tell grand tales about my adventures in this strange land. The light show was buzzing, and Andy and Jess were almost melting away—the perfect time for a bedtime story. So I told them one.

I told them about the great columns of faces reaching into the blue abyss. The force of nature that vomited light onto us and cast shade for those who were worthy with its gnarled hands. The pug that went out of its mind trying to dig itself out of its own nose. All the while, the orange roses in my room had gone through three whole life cycles. I’m not sure if it made sense but it woke them up just in time for the festivities.

The “festivities” was dinner. A ritual, really. They ate and gathered in search of common ground amongst their disparate personalities, and they found lots of it, judging by the laughter. The steam from the fresh baked cornbread trilled up the stairs into me–the hearty, domestic smell of home.

Right then, I felt like I was watching a documentary of tEp. I knew what it truly was then from the view of a ghost, or at least bits of it that don’t quite make up the whole: domestic autumnal dinners with our squid overlords, aplomb with aprons and mitts and apples; a cast of characters—the house members—breaking the 4th, 8th, and 32nd walls but not quite the last one as they acted out their carefully rehearsed play. We’re unique but still governed by expectations of social performance and puppeteered by forces unknown–hence the feeling of watching a documentary. It’s easy to study something once you’re removed from it, at least, but still hard to see the difference between what people are putting out as themselves versus what they truly are.

I’ve realized it’s the house, or less metaphorically, our history, that’s controlling us all to be these jumbled carnival actors. With its wisdom of all but 150 years, it’s seen enough to impose its will on lowly sprites like us. Is it the playwright, producer, and director then? It feels wrong but strangely comforting to be jangled like a keychain by some higher power made of earth and wood. It’s creating order from chaos: an ill-splattered blot of paint was always meant to be in this endless fractal, and the little pores in the ceiling tiles are convalescing into some sort of underlying pattern. But what if it’s pointless to try to create order from these things? It should just let a paint splatter be a paint splatter, and not have to impose its will on the poor thing. Rather cruel of it to do so, actually. And despite all its scheming, this brownstone mansion has yet to fully grasp the reins over its residents. I see it in our covert midnight conversations, the warm puddles of people that form periodically on the couch, the occasional rooftop glimpse across the river. There’s always more than a house can capture.

This carnival representation of these events perhaps arises from my laziness in forming a narrative of my experiences, carelessly anthologizing them into disparate but vaguely connected events. I don’t think I’ll weave the threads between all these stories, but they are fun to think about on their own. Or pretending everything is part of a carnival is me refusing to deal with reality. 

Speaking of which, it’s almost time to leave this place. Well, I still have two years left, but time runs faster here for some reason. It’s just… it just struck me how ephemeral a story at tEp can be. Our customs are but a guideline to how we shape this corner of the world, meant to inspire rather than reign, and they fade away with time just as we do. I wonder, what will my contribution be? Is it my late-night footsteps, my laugh, or even just these jumbled ramblings? When I step out the doors one last time, I hope I’ll have an answer.

--

Twas the Night before Stanmas - Sarah "HoffHoff" Hoffmann '21

--

Twas the night before Stanmas, and all through the house, not a xister was tooling, not even a peldge.

The fleitsuits were hung by the piano with care, in hopes that Stan soon would be there.

The quantum monster was snug in all of our beds, while visions of corn dogs danced in its head.

Squid in her garlic and I in my hard hat, had just settled down for a short finals nap.

When out on the mall there arose such a clatter, I tripped down the stairs to see what was the matter.

Into the milkcrates I fell with a crack, called for help and climbed out the back.

When what to weary eyes should appear, but a Segway and a group of Chi Phi men, dear.

With an eccentric rider, so vivacious and thicc, I knew in 22 seconds it must be Stan quick.

About 10% bigger his lackeys they came, and he quacked and yeeted and called them by name:

"Now MICHAEL, now COLIN, now JARED, now ALDEN, on MATTHEW, on DYLAN, on ERIC, on JASON!

To the top of that window, to the top of that wall, to the 'tute as the snow melts off the weather ball!"

His fellows conveyed him to the roof, and he fell out of sight with a small little poof.

As I jumped back to the door and went through the portal, out of light bulb land he came with a chortle.

He was dressed all in purple from eyelash to toe, his clothes had been torn from fighting a foe.

A bag full of garbage hung down his back, and he looked like a cephalopod as he pawed through his pack.

Clutched in his hand he carried his vape, the smoke circling round to tickle his nape.

A wink of his eye and a glimpse of his head, soon I knew my clothes I would shed.

He spoke not a word, but went queer to his work, filled 22 ducks then turned with a jerk.

Hooking his finger around his nose, he signaled to me and the secret handshake we chose.

The approach itself was confused and pained, but in the end, his trust I had gained.

He hopped on his Segway and gave his boys a yeet, and away they went off down the street.

I heard him holler as he sunk into mania, "THE ORANGES ARE RIPE IN VALENCIA!"

Avi's Lasagna - Andres "Money$hot" Reyna '20

--

I had been looking forward to Avi's lasagna ever since he volunteered to cook a final's dinner for us. I was writhing with anticipation as the clock inched ever slowly towards 7:45...

Tick, tick, tick...

7:39... 7:40... 7:41...

I made my way down the stairs, mentally and emotionally preparing my body for the bounty that was about to be bestowed upon me and my community. My legs were shaking, and I had to be extremely careful not to fall. After all, if I had to go to the hospital I would miss the lasagna. Slowly, ever so carefully, I made my way down to the first floor.

I saw his figure emerge from the doorway: the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. His muscly arms were holding a dutch oven, and the smell of its contents made its way to me and greeted my nose: pasta, bolognese, ricotta... all the flavors danced around in my nostrils and made my mouth water. I was ready for Avi's lasagna.

As dinner was called, I made sure to place myself precisely first in the queue. At that moment, the lasagna was all I could focus on: I needed it inside of me. I picked up the serving spoon and cut out the first of many beautiful slices that I would be consuming. The noodles seemed cooked to perfection, the bolognese sauce was perfectly distributed, and the cheese pull was something out of a television commercial. I realized that my breath was caught in my throat, and forced myself to exhale. Shakily, I took a fork from the cup and sat down, ready to experience the culinary miracle that laid on my plate.

The satisfaction that came from my first bite isn't something that I could describe. I had no clue how Avi had managed to exceed all my expectations for this lasagna, but I was dumbfounded in the best way possible.

As I ate, I began to sweat.

At first, I figured it was because the lasagna had just come out of the oven, and the temperature was getting to me. But I didn't feel hot. Maybe Avi made the lasagna spicy? Is it the meat sweats? All these thoughts went through my mind, but none of them seemed like an accurate explanation for why I was leaking so profusely. I finished my first potion and immediately got up to get seconds, all while a puddle of fresh sweat began pooling on my shirt.

I had absolutely no explanation for what was going on until Avi made the comment to Sarah: "I've been working on this since 3."

The realization hit me like a sack of bricks: Avi had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into making this lasagna. He spent countless hours honing his culinary skills, and the dish I was so ravenously feasting on was his magnum opus. I felt silly for not taking more time to enjoy my first portion. Sweating was my body's way of telling me to slow down and savor each and every single bite of Avi's masterpiece. At that moment, I started panicking. Why on earth did I decide that I was worthy of enjoying something so precious? How could Avi make this for me? I didn't deserve this. I shot him a nervous glance and noticed that he was staring right at me. I started to hyperventilate and put my plate down. It took every ounce of my being to break his gaze and close my eyes. People tell me that at that moment I started crying, but I don't remember anything after closing my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was back in my room. I figured that someone had taken me back up to my room in my stupor, and that I was finally coming to. I didn't have any clothes on, so I figured a bunch of time had passed since dinner and I was getting myself ready for bed. As I oriented myself, I realized that my bed was gone. In its place lied a series of lasagna noodles, all meticulously placed in a straight, orderly fashion. Surrounding the noodles was a series of heat lamps, all of which looked unfamiliar to me. I was still trying to process when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Lie down," said the deep, booming voice. I immediately recognized it and had no choice but to comply. Who was I to resist? I climbed into bed and rested myself on the noodles, still unsure of what was happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Avi take a huge Tupperware bowl filled with lasagna noodles. Without any words, he began to place the noodles on top of my naked body. I guess I should have asked what he was doing, or maybe I should have felt strange about the entire thing? I didn't. For whatever reason, the way Avi tenderly and meticulously placed the noddles on me was comforting. I felt safe with him.

Once the top of my body was covered in noodles, Avi picked up another Tupperware container that housed a meaty red liquid and a ladle. I recognized this as the bolognese sauce he prepared earlier. I wondered how he had the time to make so much of it. At any rate, my thoughts were interrupted as he gently ladled the sauce on top of the lasagna noodles. Some of it fell in between the noodles and spread out over my body. It was warm, I could tell that it had been freshly made. Another layer of comfort took over me and I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of the bolognese sauce dripping all over my body. When I opened my eyes again I saw Avi masterfully sprinkling ricotta cheese all over me, perfectly covering my entire body in a nice, even layer.

"Are you ready?" he asked me.

I still didn't fully realize what was going on, but I knew that I trusted Avi with my life. In that moment, I would give my life to him if he asked.

"Yes."

He walked to the end of the room and flipped the light switch which was mounted to the wall. Suddenly, the heat lamps sprung to life and assaulted me with their electromagnetic energy. At first, it was uncomfortable to feel so hot, but my body adjusted. It felt like going into a hot tub for the first time: once you get used to it the experience becomes so much more enjoyable. I took another curious glance at Avi, who was smiling at me. I smiled back and closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth that was enveloping me. The bolognese sauce was heating up, and the ricotta started to melt. Soon, I was completely trapped, unable to move under the gooey cheese. I didn't care though, I felt safe with Avi. I felt like a baby being swaddled by its mother as a wave of calmness washed over me. I felt myself beginning to melt into the noodles and the bolognese and the ricotta. Whatever hesitation I had up until this point was quickly washed away as I felt my body incorporating itself into the dish that Avi had prepared from me in my bed. Right before I melted away into a calming nothingness, I understood what was happening: I was becoming Avi's lasagna... I was becoming one with Avi.

My eyes snapped open as I heard a plate crash to the floor of the dining room table. I was so disoriented that I didn't realize I had let go of my plate of lasagna.

That was... all a dream? I'm still in the dining room?

I looked around at the crowd of eyes that was trained on me. Strangely, I didn't see any malicious intent in any of them. I wondered why as I studied them more carefully.

I realized they all held the same glimmer, the one that could probably also be seen from my eyes. I realized that everyone else understood what I just went through because they had just gone through something similar. Tears were rolling down my cheeks at this point, but not from sadness. They were tears of joy, of acceptance, of admiration and of love. I turned and saw Avi's beautiful figure standing next to me. I instinctively threw my head down, embarrassed that I would be crying in front of him. He took my chin with forefingers and gently lifted my head up until my gaze matched his. He was smiling the exact same smile that I saw in my dream.

At that moment, I felt his lasagna still inside of my stomach, and I smiled back. No words needed to be said.

Everything was perfect.

Nick "Qwidgibo" Hanssens, '01

--

I look back and I cannot help but think about how much I learned while living at tep. Yes, I learned to cook and to handle money and to fix things; but, at least for me, that isn't what was important. There were the times when trying to relate to 30 people felt overwhelming and pointless; and there were the times the house was there for me when I really needed it to be.

I learned how to trust a compatriate only because he knew what you were going through. I learned how somebody you don't like can save you. I learned how an awkward "I don't know what to say" or a fumbled hug can make all the differance in the world. I learned how to talk to people about things that I really thought I couldn't. I learned that trying to reach out or trying to listen, even if you fail, can honestly help. I learned that I can help those around me whom I love when they need it. I learned that love isn't a sexual thing.

MIT is a difficult place, and the value of having people around you who know what you are going through is immense. I am a better person for having gone through tep, and I notice the same differences in trust and confidence every day across my colleagues who joined fraternities and those who didn't.

Wally "Minwax" Holland, '01

--

quarter of two a.m.. two hours ago, pounding down the street, will and rhett at my heels, the only thought to get to the ice cream shoppe before it closes. wet ground, the occasional car. boston still alive at that time of night, but headed for bed shortly. on the stereo, u2. "still haven't found what i'm looking for". not exactly true, is it? something special here. got cookies and cream, size medium, and colyn insisted that we go to the supermarket afterward, silly thing really, only we'd go any damned place at that time of night, if you asked.

across the hall, bo doing that weird thing with his mouth while he studies, some freshman class. he does the same thing when he plays the bass, that chipmunk-cheeked expression. like there's a smile about to burst out. we all get together and play at cocoa sometimes: twenty-two dollar budget for snacks, and a steaming cauldron of cocoa (except the nights someone makes goddamn lemonade, but i guess i shouldn't complain). invite everyone we know over, and this strange assortment of people sort of spills all over our living room. like someone upended a box of weirdos. nice to see so many boys, girls, people from all over the institute. usually a good audience, as well, couldn't tell you why. guess it takes that spark to see what's special about this place. just left-of-center, where it belongs.

i miss edgar. not that we take the fraternity practice of "big brother/little brother" that seriously, mind you: he still owes me that dinner, because a box of mcnuggets isn't going to cover it. i remember last year, the first time i did rush from the other side of the line, how difficult it was. one day just broke down in tears (lots of reasons, i guess, but you know what 19-year-olds are like). he walked by, and didn't say anything, just lay down and hugged me. stayed that way for a while: you need the release of it, sometimes, the tears. afterward we laughed at it all, at how love is love, and little enough to be sad about. was making straight a's in eight classes when he left to join the army. wonder how he's doing?

something told me it was a little different here, even that first meeting when i arrived at mit. i was ready for water war, for kiddie pools of oobleck, for the hanging couch, the foam room, the lemon pie performance art. i wasn't ready for seppo crying when he moved out, for friday nights with rota and half the house, for eric's marriage at the aquarium, for the fred event, for the five of us sleeping in a basement in chicago, for holding nick's hand when i was sad.

been wondering lately about a lot of things, same as always: mit doesn't let you off easy. don't know about computer science, or graduate school, or midterms. i know i'm someplace unique, though. "don't dream it's over" plays, a kind of lullaby for a rainy night. feel so completely safe, so at home here. so difficult to just explain why: people ask, i always end up with, "you've just got to be there. to live it for a while." sounds like a cop-out, but how else can i explain? i heard a man say to me, "i love my brothers," and as silly as it sounds, i know he meant it: because i feel the same way. every once in a while, things just work. something about these guys: they just work.