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Astroturf and applesauce baked in the California sun. Erasers shaped like monkey heads and pens with faces exchanged in tiny hands. A young Sami Kirkpatrick cried for the third time that week after losing knockout…again. He was still years away from coming to terms with his athletic inadequacy.
At the risk of sounding like a pretentious tool, here’s a thought I had recently:
For those of you who haven’t taken a Yale tour in the past 7 years, please take a moment of your time to watch this video. 17 minutes of cringe can be too much for some so please view at your own discretion (three minutes or so should do the trick).
It’s 11:37 a.m. I’ve just made the trek from Swift to West and I am currently making my way through the BC plaza heading towards my 11:45 on Science Drive. I keep my head down with my headphones in so as to avoid being accosted by the sorority girls selling T-shirts. I’m sorry underfunded public schools, I’d love to help out but I really can’t be late to my non-attendance-taking history seminar. I hope you understand.
Unpopular opinion: I hate tapas.
It was ten in the morning. I was sitting at a desk in the Friedl building. I was doodling in the margins of my notebook.
“You know what man, I think the Cubs really have a shot at running it back this year,” my Uber driver said when we were about halfway through the 40-minute ride from O’Hare airport to Northwestern University.
What to wear? On a normal morning this is a question I don’t usually give too much thought. I’ll grab whatever shirt is on top of the pile, rule out shorts since all of my ankle socks are dirty, make a gut decision on which color Stan Smiths to wear and I’m on my way. But on this particular morning, I found myself picking my outfit according to a stipulation by which I never thought I’d have to abide: will this get me shot?
On a hot Carolina summer afternoon, in the shadow of a slowly deteriorating barn, a sea of pastel ripples like a field of Dutch tulips in a light breeze. And call me Ishmael, because this sea is full of whales.
A couple of weeks ago my family was in town so my sister, who is a junior in high school, could tour Duke. When I was looking at colleges I went on a plethora of campus tours, but oddly enough I never went on the official Duke tour. The only time I had been to campus before arriving this fall was for an event for kids of alumni where we were given an abridged tour. So I thought it would be fun to tag along with my family and see how the information given on the tour compared to my experiences after nearly one year at Duke.
This spring break I got some much needed relaxation as I sat back and watched two forms of March Madness: one of course on the basketball court, the other pervading the gossip of teenagers and parents alike as current high school seniors began to hear back from colleges in the regular decision round.
On Sunday night I put off a substantial amount of work to watch the 89th annual Academy Awards. Sure, I had already spent most of the day marathoning the new season of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but I deserved a break nevertheless. It was my first time watching the Oscars away from home and the party my parents have been throwing for as long as I can remember, and it served as a reminder of how much has changed since I’ve gone away to college. For a moment, while sitting on a worn-down couch in Bassett’s sad excuse for a common room, I got a little bit sentimental thinking about how childhood traditions are now a thing of the past, and how currently I’m in a limbo of sorts between the departure from old traditions and the formation of new ones.
It was late one Tuesday night when, while scouring the stacks of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, I came across a peculiar book bound in leather and imprinted with golden hieroglyphs. My hands started to reach towards the mysterious item without my mind telling them to do so, and as they got closer I could hear whispers in my ear speaking in foreign tongues. As soon as I opened the cover a powerful beam of light shot into the sky and a genie that bore an uncanny resemblance to the late Philip Seymour Hoffman emerged from the pages. He told me he would grant me three wishes, and if one of those wishes was to have unlimited wishes that would be a real jerk move so don’t be that guy.
“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” This quote of South African social rights activist Desmond Tutu has been everywhere on social media as of late. Well, at least on my social media feeds. I highly doubt my grandparents in Tennessee have come across it, unless Edith from church woke up this morning and decided to drastically stray from her usual posting habits of Bible quotes and cat photos.
This winter break, while on a family trip to New York, I got a chance to see the new Broadway musical "Dear Evan Hansen." With music and lyrics by up-and-coming composers Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, who recently took home a Golden Globe for their role in writing lyrics for the critically acclaimed film "La La Land," "Dear Evan Hansen" tells the story of a lonely high school senior who gets caught in a web of lies surrounding the suicide of a fellow classmate.