It was 1964, the year the first wave of baby boomers swamped colleges all over the United States. To show off the capabilities of its huge new computers, the University of Michigan sent questionnaires to all entering freshmen and used our answers to match each of us with the perfect roommate.

For me, that was Barb, a New Yorker who shared my interest in classical music, literature, and foreign languages. The letters Barb and I exchanged before meeting in person confirmed that the computer had done an excellent job.

At the last minute, the university scrambled to squeeze too many freshmen into too few dormitory rooms. In some cases, one of the single beds in a double room was swapped out for a bunk bed, and the room instantly became a triple. The third girl assigned to room with Barb and me had requested a single but agreed to settle for a triple until a single became available. That was future SNL cast member, actor and comedian Gilda Radner.

I was in the top bunk, Gilda in the bottom, for the first semester. Then a single opened up on the same floor, and Gilda moved into it. I can’t say I got to know her deeply during our few months as roommates, but I liked her and — need I say? — she made me laugh.

When we’d been rooming together for a few days, I dropped a book from the top bunk onto the floor. “Oh, fooey-dooey,” I said.

“Fooey-dooey?” said Gilda. “You can’t go through college saying ‘fooey-dooey’! The thing to say is ‘F**k!’”

I had lived — need I say? — a sheltered life. “Isn’t that a sex act?” I said. “Why would I mention a sex act when I drop a book?”

That was the beginning of an off-syllabus course in swearing. Gilda was a good teacher.

She seemed curious about me. I don’t think she’d ever known anyone so nerdy and naïve. One night when I returned from a date, we had this conversation:

Gilda: Did you make out?

Me: I don’t know.

Gilda: Did you kiss?

Me: Yes.

Gilda: How many times?

Me: I don’t know.

Gilda: Then you made out!

Her favorite part of dorm life was the fire drills. When the bell rang, she donned a yellow slicker and rubber boots, and stood in the stairwell, barking orders to the girls filing out of the building.

There was no way back then to see Gilda’s enormous talent or to imagine that she was destined for greatness. She was funny but unhappy. She was in love serially with guys who didn’t love her back, and she worried a lot about her weight. Her struggle with eating disorders is now well-known; Barb and I had an early glimpse of it. In our room at night, we heard her confession as she rattled off a list of everything she had eaten during the day. More than ten years later, “What Gilda Ate” became a sketch on Saturday Night Live.

After Gilda moved into a single room, I didn’t see her often. I do remember all of us fifth-floor residents gathered around a stall in the restroom, cheering her on while she inserted her first tampon.

The following year, Gilda moved into an apartment and began to hang out with the theater crowd. I occasionally ran into her on campus, and we gave each other thumbnail versions of recent personal events. The last time I saw her was the spring of senior year. She was walking a tiny poodle in the quad and told me she was about to move to Toronto with her boyfriend. The rest is history.

I’ve always been reluctant to tell people that I knew Gilda, lest they think I was trying to profit from her fame. With this year’s fiftieth-anniversary SNL festivities, something changed for me. What’s the harm in letting others know the little I knew about her?

The main thing I learned from her, besides how to swear, is that famous people are no different from the rest of us. Like Gilda, we just want to love and be loved. We want self-acceptance. We want to put on our boots and shuffle down the corridor, laughing with our friends.

Alice Bloch is an island author known for her short fiction, essays and memoirs.