Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
14 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
Even for alumni halfway across the world, the last few months have been a cause for celebration. Duke football. The phoenix rising from the ashes. What could be more inspiring than the ultimate punch line in college sports transforming into the ultimate parable?
I was not ready for graduation. I told everyone that I was, just like I told myself, but the truth is that I was terrified. I had fallen in love with not only Duke, but also the larger notion of what Duke—of what college—was supposed to be: bright-eyed students walking a turret-lined campus and thinking about “things that matter,” having 3:00 a.m. conversations, befriending professors—that sort of thing. Whether this actually happened was beside the point: I was majorly crushing on this thing called the liberal arts, and the breakup was going to be bad. I craved lunchtime epiphanies and life-changing lectures and ideas so beautiful they hurt, and, so, as May barreled in, I could not help but wonder, when will I ever feel this aware and alive and electric again?
Way back in May, President Brodhead ushered me the other graduating students and I off-campus with some real-talk at Baccalaureate:
My folks are neither tiger mothers nor helicopter parents. They simply want the best for me. They worry about my safety. I remind myself of this every time I dial their telephone number nowadays, because our relationship is changing. The parental talks seem longer and more didactic now, and, to my parents, my decisions appear more radical. I’m a young adult living on my own 700 miles from home, but my parents are still my parents. For this reason, the gap year has been as much a growing pain for them as it has for me.
The air in Beijing is the stuff of legend. On the good days, there is usually a bleak, gray haze hanging drearily over buildings and coating trees with a thin layer of dry, waxy dust. On the bad days, you can taste the air. To me, it has a subtle sweetness, which might even be pleasant if it weren’t for the all too-frequent whiff of car exhaust and the feeling, after a few minutes, that your lungs are being turned into a paste.
Spending time with my seven-year-old friend—let’s call her Angie—always brings up a number of unanswerable questions.
I didn’t need to take a class with Dan Ariely to realize that managing expectations was the key to happiness. Instead, I gained this wisdom from the object of my fondest affections freshman year: Freeman Center macaroni. That Thursday night quest in search of magical pasta represented a much-needed respite from Marketplace tofu. But, over time, as I began to hype my weekly pilgrimage in my mind, I found myself less and less satisfied. It was the same, wonderful macaroni—just held to a different standard. My solution? I forced myself to anticipate that tofu each Thursday, only to be completely overwhelmed by that wonderful buffet line. Problem solved.
“Dear Kristen, Thank you for your application to our School of Medicine. The Committee for Admissions has reviewed your materials and based on your credentials has determined you will not be offered admission into our 2014 class.”
Nestled in the lofty, green hills of Ito, our room had a beautiful view of the sea. The bay was dotted with the warm glow of fishing boat lights, set under a sky splashed with stars. The crisp smell of bamboo wafted up from the garden, where a series of waterfalls cascaded down. The faint chirping of crickets brought life to an otherwise still night.
“Duke isn’t the real world.”
What should I do with my life?
The morning routine continues. Scared of being “that guy” and showing up late, you glance at the time as you power walk among the masses. Shiny metal doors open. You step in, bracing yourself to be whizzed away towards your final destination. After noticing a handful of individuals in suits, you eye your coffee warily while imagining all the potential wardrobe faux paus you are committing. You do a little jig as your headphones blast the song “Africa.” Suddenly, the shiny doors open again. You step out, gazing ahead only to come eye-to-eye with the only sight that reminds your delirious self where you’re going, what you’re doing and, perhaps at a more existential level, why you’re here: the Chapel.
“Two drifters, off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see….”
Dressed in black gowns and strange neck pieces, we marched through Wallace Wade Stadium triumphantly. We listened to the wise words of Melinda Gates, swayed to the sound of our Alma Mater and knew without question that it was our time to take on the world. And in a whirlwind of congratulations, photo-ops and teary goodbyes, we left with sheepskin in hand and rode off into the sunset toward happily ever after—Class of 2013. That must be what it looked like, anyway. That was certainly how it appeared when we watched the class above ours graduate. But for many of us newly minted Duke alumni—and particularly the premedical kind—this “happily ever after” has a name: the gap year.
