When I was in eighth grade, I had an English teacher named Mrs. Johnson. During the last period of the school day, I would sit in the back corner of her classroom and listen while she led recitations of “Julius Caesar”or discussions of film scenes from “Amadeus.” Everyone in the class loved her.
There’s something special about childhood. It’s a time before you come to a rational awareness of the world around you—when nonsense makes sense, and fresh sensations flood your senses with innumerable possibilities.
Until a few years ago, I thought I knew what it meant to be a good listener. It meant being quick to hear and slow to speak.
We might not be aware of it, but too many of our relationships are rooted to a foundation of fear that is fixated instinctually on serving ourselves.
Exactly 12 years ago on this day, Feb. 27 2003, the earth lost a human being who could never be replaced.
As this year’s tenting season comes to an end, I’m reminded of something that makes Duke particularly unique among top universities in the United States.
Over the years, people have adopted numerous metaphors to illustrate the wondrously dynamic nature of the United States Constitution, but among my personal favorites is John Dickinson’s likening of...
Over the past few weeks, I’ve felt that something crucial has been missing from our conversations about race.
I don’t usually think much of it, but whenever I meet someone for the first time, I am born again.
Early in my life I learned what it was like to live in linguistic limbo—where I could understand a language that I couldn’t speak.
