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A couple of weeks ago, I started working my way through old episodes of Doctor Who to prepare myself for the upcoming season (and, more importantly, Jodie Whittaker’s role as the first female incarnation of the Doctor). Within the first episode, I was surprised to find how nostalgic the show made me feel.
Cycling in this city can be a treacherous task, but as I’ve gotten used to it, I’ve found that it has enabled me to finally appreciate the allure of Amsterdam.
The first semester of college, my independence was tested more than ever. There was the first time I was late for or skipped a class and had no one to blame but myself. Or the first time I forewent studying an extra hour for a test to irresponsibly hang out with the cute guy I had just met. Last but not least, the first time I ate six bowls of mac and cheese and a few brownies, and then skipped the gym, simply because I could.
It’s no secret to those who know me even a little bit that I am from Pakistan. From my Introduction to Fiction and Poetry (IFP) stories to my plays to my poems, a part of my work is always dedicated to the country which has left an indelible mark on my identity.
When it comes to taking a stance on big policy issues, Larry Hogan is no liberal. But in a state dominated by Democrat voters, Hogan has maintained an outstanding approval rate. With midterms quickly approaching, he holds a 16-point lead against Democratic challenger Ben Jealous. If re-elected, Hogan will be the first Republican governor to serve a second term in 60 years.
At a school like Hopkins, it can be hard to find quality time to connect with people. Our lifestyle is conducive to shutting in without realizing it, and in those moments, we distance ourselves from friends and worsen their own solitude. This has been especially true as the nearly semester-long midterm season has finally begun to so rudely introduce itself.
Chances are that if you’re here, you’ve always had a passion for knowledge, whether it manifested itself in a love of books (as was the case for me), an intense interest in taking things apart and reassembling them, or in playing “doctor” and “operating” on your siblings.
Roughly a year ago, I wrote my first column for The News-Letter. In an attempt to “introduce myself” and this column, I unwittingly put myself into a box. I labelled myself as “the British girl” because that’s what I had already been labelled as by most people I’d met just a few weeks into my first semester here. I allowed myself to stay within that box, however, and I can only blame myself for that.
It’s been 11 years since I read the very first Hardy Boys book, but if you were to ask me about its ending, I would be able to tell you everything about how Frank and Joe Hardy solved their first mystery together. Because of my really good memory when I was younger, I never understood how people could read the same book or watch the same movie over and over again. If I already know how the story is going to go, then what is the point of seeing it all unravel again?
In my last column, I discussed the opportunity gap at Hopkins for low-income students, like myself. However, in doing so, I feel as if I misrepresented myself, so I want to make one thing clear:
As anyone who knows anything about the Dutch will know, they are obsessed with cycling. It’s not too surprising though, when you think of how small the Netherlands is (around 42,000 square kilometers or twice the size of New Jersey) and how flat. When the steepest incline you have to ascend is just a canal bridge, you quickly realize that cycling seems like the most logical mode of transport. Tour guides always like to ask the trick question to tourists about how many bikes they think there are in Amsterdam. They might give a hint that the population is a little over 830,000. Can you guess?
You’re with your friends, and you wash your hands thoroughly to get the Dorito crumbs out from under your fingernails. You humorously blurt out, “Sorry guys, I’m really OCD.”
A few years ago, I went to a concert with two of my close friends. It was a punk festival at Ottobar that featured a few different performers, but we were most excited to see the local band Snail Mail, who only had one EP out at the time. After some bizarre sets during which we all almost got punched in the face by a flailing guitarist and listened to a woman remix her screams on an electric keyboard (my one friend still jokes that I was the only person able to dance to the rhythmic screeching), Snail Mail came out.
1. Meet somebody in the back of the bus – the place where three seats face three seats. Your friends and you will fill up one row and two boys will sit down in the other. After a few minutes on the circulator, Stanford sweater will ask if you girls go to Hopkins? Your friend should say yes. The other boy has cauliflower ears and you wonder if he’s a fighter like you, he is a pale man with a ginger beard and rough hands.
I don't know how to write this. I have been wanting to write it for a very long time, but there's always something wrong with the words that flow – at some point it was that I wasn't ready – still too close to the problem to write about it. Then, I was too emotional, too unstable. And at every point there was something or the other that prevented me from writing.
As we approach the one year anniversary of the bombshell reports on Harvey Weinstein’s decades-long reign of sexual terror over Hollywood and the global explosion of the #MeToo movement, the press and social media are burgeoning with questions of redemption.
I’m liberal, yet I recently went to the pro-Trump Mother Of All Rallies (MOAR). I’m gay, yet I recently went to a rally where many of the attendees supported a president whose statements and actions have consistently attacked the LGBTQ community. I’m Jewish, yet I recently ventured into a space full of individuals who support a president who has empowered Neo-Nazis.
I never thought I would be able to say I’ve danced (and won) the “In My Feelings” challenge in front of Kevin Plank, the CEO of Under Armour. I did not exactly volunteer with the intent to do so, either; in a classic story of overenthusiastic-intern-volunteers-for-literally-everything, I did not even know what I was signing up for before the spotlight was burning a hole through my forehead.
Last spring I was talking to a friend, who has already spent years in Europe and Asia, about all the places we’d like to be able to visit some day.