Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
While many of you were probably downing Natty Bohs at a darty this past weekend, I was in the presence of slightly more tolerable beer at Germany’s Oktoberfest. Somewhat misleadingly, Oktoberfest actually kicks off in September and runs for a few weeks into the next month. What began as a wedding celebration 200 years ago has evolved into a check-box on the travel list of every student studying abroad.
How would I describe anxiety? Like thoughts but on steroids, on overdrive. Each one hits you like a knife slicing through your brain. Like this blackness that you swim in. You want to come up for air but you can't. It’s like your chest is made of a thousand stones and a rib cage that seems to be rigidly attached to your heart. Like something is itching inside of you. But instead of itching, it’s like someone is ravaging your insides and you can't stop it.
After writing my first piece for The News-Letter about self care, I heard so much positive feedback about it that I was inspired to write on self care again. I had just come back from a large group meeting at A Place To Talk Large, and we had explored the different objects, people, memories and places that are the most important to us in our lives. It really made me reflect on the things that make my life so great. I do love my life, and I think this love is due to my many ways for taking care of myself. I believe that you are capable of loving your life when you take good care of yourself.
This week I watched Netflix’s newest original movie, Tall Girl. This movie starts with a guy starting to ask out our titular tall girl, Jodi (played by Ava Michelle), until she stands up. She is a tall, blonde model-type, which is obviously a fat “no” for little boys in high school. And she follows up with, “You know that really, really tall girl you go to school with?” Eye-roll.
The bathtub itself took 30 minutes to clean and another 10 to fill. For a quick 20-minute dip, it resulted in quite a long series of catastrophes, including my almost dropping my laptop and my copy of Jonathan Spence’s The Search for Modern China into the disappointingly soapy water. It was stress-inducing rather than stress-relieving.
This is for my older brother. It is a life-changing experience to be a little sister, and it was a surprisingly emotional moment for me to see him get married. I shut down. I got defensive to hide the feeling of losing my big brother.
Over the past few months, I’ve heard a refrain from my peers when talking about Democratic hopefuls for President: “I like X candidate, but I should probably vote for Biden because he’s the most electable.” Voters in the Democratic Party (disclaimer: I’m one of them) like to throw around the word “electability,” but what exactly does this mean? As a young person excited about civic participation, I’ve taken a more critical look at the claim that former Vice President Joe Biden is our most electable — and only — option.
Last week, I was morbidly ill (read: I had a cold) and all I wanted was some soup. As my sinuses revolted against the benevolent patron who regularly treats them to ginger tea and essential oil diffusers, I writhed about in bed pining for nothing more than a steaming bowl of broth into which I could plunge my face and dissolve my affliction.
First of all, let’s get two things straight: You only know as much about a person as they choose to share with you, and money can’t buy you everything.
Circumscribed by hundreds of books, Ronald Walters leans back in his chair and prepares to tell his story. From Stanford to Berkeley, where he received his PhD, Walters moved across the country to join the Hopkins staff in 1970, and he is currently a professor of history.
Why am I here at Hopkins? Well, I put in the effort throughout my schooling, which put me in the position to be able to get into Hopkins. But that isn’t enough.
Today I am disillusioned. Today I am heartbroken. Today I look back at history and I know why we allowed atrocious crimes of genocide and ethnic cleansing to take place.
Midterm season has officially started, and those who are used to the grind swing back into their routine, while those who are new to Hopkins find themselves most likely bewildered by the system.
In the first few weeks that I have been abroad, one of the most important things I’ve learned is that the freshman plague transcends collegiate boundaries.
“Do you feel more Chinese or American?” We were studying abroad in China, enjoying the best that Shanghai bar life has to offer, when one of my classmates asked me this. She asked the question to a fellow Chinese American student, who sat tall next to me. His answer? “American, through and through.”
This week I shall be roasting one of Netflix’s original movies The Kissing Booth. If you haven’t seen it, consider yourself a lucky one.
“If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate,” Elbert Hubbard once said.
I. I sat as the youngest between seven cousins and countless relatives, eating our own version of a belated Thanksgiving. Between mouthfuls of dumplings and rice cakes, I saw my aunt’s eyes crinkling into a smile.
So it’s junior year, and it sucks. I thought the transition would be easier because I’ve been doing this whole thing for two years now.
I cannot understand Urdu literature. I cannot read Urdu poems. And I feel like a part of me has been taken from me. Urdu is the language of love, the language of the sufis, the language of the poets and now the language that has been snatched from me because of my colonized history.
