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We’re catchin’ gators, whatcha y’all doin? Perched on a red Kawasaki, my mom and I watched as two young guys baited their lines to catch more gators.
Eclectics showcase 2020 was going to be lit. Twenty pieces that my peers choreographed, to be performed on the first Saturday of May. From gravity-defying rolls to six-steps and top rocking and epic shuffle choreography, this year was gonna have it all.
As I write this, it’s day nine of spring break, one day until online classes begin and more days than I feel like counting until I return to Baltimore and the life I love there. I’m sitting on my couch at home in Brooklyn, wondering how the hell I got here and have been forced to stay here. I think it’s safe to say this wasn’t what anyone expected, even just two weeks ago.
It is time to stop pretending that finances do not matter. That America is a land of equal opportunity. That anywhere in the world is a land of equal opportunity. We have heard that “with great power comes great responsibility,” but never that with money comes the greatest responsibility of all.
Like most people, I have had a lot of time to think and reflect lately. One theme keeps coming back to me. What will the world be like after the coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic is over? Tragedies and national emergencies do change the nation, the world and the way we live. The ending of World War II led to the Cold War and an arms race between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were a direct effect of 9/11. Going to the airport has never been fun, but 9/11 created the need for the TSA, and we’ve been removing our shoes and tossing bottled water at the airport ever since.
This past summer I signed up to be a sitter on the app Rover and take care of dogs in Baltimore City. I love dogs and have always had at least one in my home while growing up, so it seemed like a natural side hustle. I also really missed my pup back home throughout my entire freshman year and knew I could not go another year without increasing my canine contact.
I love to fill out my iCal with blocks of things to do. It gives me the peace of mind that I have set a time for that particular task. Unfortunately, as Introduction to Psychology taught me, and as I have personally experienced, humans overestimate their productivity. Often I end up shifting my plans around because life likes to throw curve balls. For example, last week I took a spontaneous day trip to Paris to visit my friend.
It’s tough to figure out a plan for your life: It involves risk, decisiveness and commitment. Hopefully the following points give you a good starting place in helping you figure out what you want to do with your life, but know that the process is highly subjective. Only you can know what you want to do with the rest of your life, and no one can give you those answers.
Ayo, I’m back with more of my opinions! This week I’m tackling the one and only Canadian dreamboat turned criminal turned whatever he is now, Justin Drew Bieber.
The University’s panhellenic sororities have an annual tradition of pairing their newest members, “littles,” with a mentor, known as a “big.” Once paired, the big meticulously plans a “secret week” of surprises for the little, leading up to their exciting reveal at the end of the week.
I did something I thought I would never have to do last semester: I withdrew from a class. And God do I wish I had handled it differently.
Evening meant clutching Amma’s hand and crossing Kachi Gali to reach the neighbors’ houses. After visiting Mehwish, it was Akbar ki amma’s (Akbar’s mom), as she was referred to, turn. We would stop by her house and the dusty living room, filled with placards she had embroidered herself. (“Welcome,” and, “Have a good day!” they proclaimed.) Akbar ki amma was old, and I never knew her name; she was always just Akbar ki amma, and her house seemed very lonely and empty. Amma reminded me that is why we must always visit her.
Over this past leap-weekend, I attended the sixth annual IvyG at Cornell University, a conference for first-generation and low-income (FLI) students that attend so-called “elite” or selective universities and colleges. While this was the second or even third time that some of the other students I went with were attending, this was my first time. Naturally, I was really excited (and equally stressed) for a three-day respite from Hopkins, but the conference ended up being more of a mixed bag — I was really appreciative of some aspects of our scheduling, but felt others fell short and failed to create an inclusive environment.
About 15 years ago, in December 2005, my dad first came to America. I had just turned eight, and it was the first time in my life that one of my parents had been gone for an extended period of time like that. He was going there to start the process of becoming a U.S. permanent resident, which is the only reason I even can apply to be a citizen today.
For the longest time, my relationship with food has been something that I’ve wanted to write about. I’ve wanted to bring it up in conversation, but I have never known how.
Frankly speaking, one of this University’s most unrealistic expectations of upperclassmen students is that they should cook for themselves. Most of my peers, far braver than I, have indeed begun attempting to hone this life skill. Some of these peers include my roommates, whose pots and pans piling up in the sink are a reminder of this learning process (If you’re reading this, it’s NOT too late to clean up!).
My days begin early. At 5:15 a.m. my alarm wakes me. This is the only way I can spend a few precious minutes with my wife in the morning before she begins work at her preschool. Our routine is the 45 minutes of coffee and news we have together before the marathon of each day begins.
Over the past few months, I’ve had so many X-rays and other imaging done that I’m a little disappointed the radiation hasn’t yet given me superpowers. They all happened during the 20 or so ER trips, doctor’s visits and physical therapy appointments that I had as a result of two injuries last semester.
One of the trickier parts about growing up is figuring out what to do with money. In high school I worked at an ice cream shop and got paid 10 dollars an hour.