The independent news organization of Duke University
How difficult could it be to run the paper while we were all apart? Answer: difficult.
March 4, 2020 was a relatively normal print production day.
When I walked out of the office on Wednesday night, at the end of my last editing shift, I wanted to stay because of the little things.
If I ever finish writing this column, it will run on the last day of classes, at the end of a very strange year.
It is truly amazing how many rooftops the average Duke student has access to, if only they’re possessed of a bobby pin, a good pair of climbing pants, and a childish contempt for authority.
One morning in the Chronicle office, after pulling an all-nighter to finish a PubPol memo, I saw a squirrel in front of me.
This is my first and final written contribution to a paper that has shaped my college experience beyond any other organization at Duke.
To work with my body, I can value its ability to love and care and provide life.
This has been my favorite thing that I have done at Duke. I say without an ounce of exaggeration that it has been the honor of my college career to serve as your plague jester.
And with that in mind, beloved, the only things left to do are wish for the protection and joy of each and every one of you.
Next time you take a walk around campus, notice the trees that compose the forest our university sits within.
I have learned to let go of expectations for what my future will look like. It makes enjoying my present location more difficult. Often the real future surprises us and we end up making mistakes that disappoint our past selves. But just like TV shows, we must continue to chug along and write a new season or a tired sequel.
Fear will make you shrink back rather than live into the grand future set before you.
By refusing to acknowledge how racism manifests into these incidents, the administration ultimately emboldens perpetrators to continue terrorizing communities of color on campus.
This is the general pattern of the column: the author will throw a weak rhetorical punch before running away. In the end, all we come away with is knowledge of the things he dislikes—a boring read made confusing by its lack of purposeful moves.
Greek life does not make sex-offenders out of good people, nor does it make us any more exclusive than we naturally are as humans.
The war against political correctness is a war against accountability.
But what there is not is a multitude of sermons on what it means to be in happiness, in extended states of peace, or to be okay with thriving and not expecting that suffering will bring an end to every good moment you experience.
What’s the point of playing a fixed game? Perhaps the answer to that question is that politics are not a game at all, but for many people—particularly those of us who are not cis white men—a matter of life or death.
I am a month away from graduating and concluding the most transformative four years of my life. It fills me with equal feelings of fear, excitement, and deep sorrow.
