Cohan Hall: A Communist Utopia

During my freshman spring, whenever I revealed my housing plans for the following year — Cohan Hall — I was met with derisive laughter, sympathetic and pitiful nods, and countless condolences. I was told that the forced doubles were so intimate that I’d be able to clasp my roommate’s hand all from the comfort of our own beds, and that I was lucky enough to not be assigned to the basement, which housed local Amherst wildlife — rats and mice — and would occasionally flood in times of heavy rain. And yet, they also whispered of something greater — a rite of passage, an Amherst tradition, a true test of resilience. Cohan Hall was more than a place; It was a prophecy.

At first, we all resisted, clinging onto familiar capitalist practices — hoarding personal snacks, locking doors, and pretending that our privacy was a right. But Cohan had its ways of breaking us down. The thin walls made sure no conversation remained private, and the malfunctioning heating system in the winter bonded us closer together in our shared human suffering.

Slowly but surely, we changed. Personal possessions became communal. Food, once guarded defensively, was left out for all to take, and we started to take the “open door policy” a little too literally until we forgot which rooms were originally our own. Things started to sort of just blend together.

The common room became the beating heart of our society — a place where we would congregate to air out grievances, talk about our futures, and gather around the communal PlayStation like a warm campfire. With just one controller, we learned how to patiently wait our turn to play a round of Fortnite, rediscovering a forgotten childhood adage: Sharing is caring. This principle quickly seeped into every aspect of our Cohan lives.

This common room was a safe space where we left out laptops, phones, car keys, cash, entirely trusting those who made up our community. Since private property no longer existed to us, this space was just another shared entity. We often walked around the halls without shoes, just socks — sometimes only bare feet — like it wasn’t a dorm, but our very own little house.

As time went on, the old world along with the first-year quad faded from memory. Cohan became its own civilization where the idea of private ownership eroded before our very eyes. But from this loss of material goods, something greater emerged: The strongest sense of camaraderie. Together, we were bound by the shared hardship of living in Cohan and a singular, unspoken understanding that none of us would ever live like this again.

But all utopias must come to an end. Next year, Cohan will no longer house wide-eyed sophomores ready to sacrifice their personal space for the common good. Half of us will scatter across the globe to study abroad, while the rest will be relegated to more traditional, individualistic living quarters, where doors are closed, possessions are hoarded, and PlayStations are not shared but personally owned.

As I reflect on my time spent in Cohan, I realize that this was more than just a dorm or a rite of passage — it was a way of life, a dream, a fleeting glimpse into a world that knows no boundaries. So, to those who once called this socialist paradise home, I bid you farewell. May you carry the spirit of Cohan with you always: May your doors remain open and your belongings freely distributed to those you love and trust. Cohan forever.

Editor’s Note: This is a satirical article written for April Fool’s.