The Quiet Politics of Campus Toilet Paper

Gabriela Flores ’26

Contributing Writer

When a new college president takes office, it is customary to begin to evaluate their tenure through lofty indicators: strategic plans, original campus-wide emails, donor confidence or the frequency with which the word “vision” appears in public addresses. These are fine measures, of course, but they miss a more intimate and revealing site of institutional change; one that students interact with daily, often multiple times a day and almost never discuss in polite company. 

I am speaking, naturally, about toilet paper. 

In year one of Daniel G. Lugo’s presidency, an observable shift has occurred across campus bathrooms. The toilet paper is thicker. Noticeably thicker. Meanwhile, the paper towels, once almost aggressively plush, have become thinner, lighter and more sparing. To the untrained eye, this may seem incidental, the result of a routine change of supplier or a quietly updated sustainability policy. But to dismiss it as coincidence would be to ignore the clearest evidence of administrative philosophy we have. 

Presidential leadership, after all, is not only expressed in speeches and mission statements. It is expressed in priorities. And nothing reveals priorities quite like where an institution chooses to add material and where it chooses to subtract it. 

The upgraded toilet paper exhibits a commitment to student comfort at its most basic level. It acknowledges vulnerability. It understands that education is not merely intellectual but physical, and that a student who feels supported—quite literally—is a student better equipped to learn. Thicker toilet paper is not flashy. It does not demand recognition. It simply performs its duty, quietly and competently, which is more than can be said for many institutional initiatives. 

At the same time, the thinning of paper towels points to an awareness of sustainability. Paper towels are, by nature, excessive. One quickly becomes three, which becomes five, which then become a guilt-ridden wad shoved into an already overflowing trash can. By making paper towels thinner, the administration subtly nudges students toward restraint. You can still dry your hands, but perhaps you’ll think twice before grabbing another. 

This is what thoughtful governance looks like: redistribution rather than excess. Comfort where it matters most, conservation where it is most easily practiced. A campus learning, collectively, how to live with slightly less in one hand so it can have slightly more where it counts. 

Many may argue that this analysis overstates the significance of bathroom supplies, that no president should be evaluated on ply count. But such criticism misunderstands the symbolic power of the mundane. Students may forget the content of an inaugural address, but they will remember the moment they sat down in a freezing February bathroom stall and thought, “Huh. This is actually… nice.” 

In an era when administrative transparency is often promised and rarely felt, the bathroom offers something refreshingly honest. It is a space untouched by branding language or strategic euphemism. It is where institutional values either hold up—or not. 

If the first year of President Lugo’s tenure can be characterized by anything, it is this quiet recalibration of priorities. Less waste. More care. Fewer emails telling us change is happening, and more under the radar evidence that it already has. 

So as winter sets in, temperatures drop, and skin everywhere becomes increasingly sensitive, perhaps we should take a moment to appreciate this small but meaningful upgrade. Policy may shape the future, but comfort shapes the present. And as we brace ourselves for the cold months ahead, at least we can rest assured that,thanks to thicker toilet paper,our cheeks will be thanking the administration long after the snow has melted.