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.
“Love” is one of the most — if not the most — elusive emotions for a person to experience. Whether you’re an artist or a scholar, defining “love” is a nearly impossible task. Perhaps due to its abstractness or broad definition, conveying this emotion is an intricate skill that takes years to perfect.
Recently, I turned 20. While starting another decade of my life felt heavy in its own right, I had been anxiously anticipating this moment for so long that reaching the milestone brought an unexpected sense of calm clarity. For the first time, too, I didn’t shy away from celebrating myself. And for the first time, I didn’t wait for others to notice or wish me happy birthday first.
I haven’t yet met anyone on this campus who hasn’t been exhausted, at some point, by the time November rolls around. Still, every other day I trick myself into thinking that burnout is an isolated experience.
Sometimes, as I walk towards my dorm and look for my keys to open the door, I can feel his presence, creeping behind me as an overwhelming void of disapproval trails the steps I have taken. I can hear him grunt and scoff at me looking for the right key, as if he expects more.
First Year Seminars (FYS) seem to be one of the most defining features of the “Hopkins First-Year Experience.” From uncovering the secrets of “Why We Science?” to snacking in “The Literature of Food,” there seems to be an endless supply of knowledge ready to be unveiled by the next unsuspecting freshmen.
Politics always felt distant, like an endless noise I wasn’t supposed to question. I had always treated politics as something I chose not to participate in or educate myself in. To me, it represented polarity, difference, argument, conflict — nothing of a good connotation.
This year, my younger sibling Ellis was finally able to start receiving gender-affirming care to support their journey as a transgender individual. Ellis has always been their own fiercest advocate, using their voice to fight for their right to existence in a society that has extended unspeakable amounts of hate to children who just want the basic right to live authentically as themselves.
A few weeks ago, I walked into CVS and printed out 114 4x6 photos. My intent was to make a photo wall in my apartment, but given that I am indecisive, I decided to just print a huge chunk of my favorites folder without truly thinking about the sheer quantity that I had selected.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about the things that I’d done for the last time without knowing it. My dad put my hair into a ponytail for the last time on one random school morning in 2014. I played my final solitaire game on our crusty computer in 2016 right before it shut down for good, never to be opened again.
Last week, I caught a particularly annoying cold and lost my voice. As I showed up to class armed with masks and copious quantities of hand sanitizer, I noticed that I wasn’t raising my hand during lectures nearly as much as I usually do. I wasn’t asking my professors questions or answering theirs because of my voice; I didn’t bother trying to speak because I knew it wouldn’t work. Its silencing effect was annoying, and it was particularly irksome because this wasn't the first time my voice had held me back.
Over fall break, I voted in my first election. But that wasn’t the biggest “first” I experienced. That week, I was also called something I had never been called before: a “fucking libtard.”
I have a wall inside of me that I think is made of concrete. It has taken me 17 years to recognize it, 18 to acknowledge it, and 19 to write it all down in a Voices article for The News-Letter.
I’ve never been good with change; in fact, it terrifies me. More specifically, I’ve never been good with letting people go. Throughout orientation week at Hopkins, I would wake up in my dorm wishing I could go back to my childhood bedroom and listen to my parents’ voices drifting in from the living room.
Something about free-floating 35,000 feet in the air watching the sun come up or city lights sparkle down below is oddly calming. Sometimes, I wonder how much time I’ve spent untethered to anything except for whatever metal tube with wings I’m currently sitting in, and, coming from the opposite side of the country, it’s probably quite a lot.
As the end of my college experience draws closer, I’m forced to think about what comes next. And what does come next? I, for one, have no idea. I’m doing all the right things (I think): applying to jobs, reaching out to alumni, leveraging my experiences, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But it’s really scary to leave academia.
While I personally don’t recall the exact moment my parents told me I was going to have a younger brother, I laugh every time I watch the VHS tapes. I was so upset — almost in tears. At the time, I was deep in my Barbie era, and all I could think about was not having a sister to dress up and play with; though, to his dismay, my brother, Krish, did end up going through that phase with me anyway.
After the clock ticked past midnight and my friends force-fed me cake and it was officially autumn and the beginning of my 22nd year, one of my roommates asked me to share what I was thinking of, being the first to turn 22 and therefore older and wiser than the rest of my friends.
More often than not, I’m thinking about writing fiction. And, despite this column’s partial intention of being a way to document whatever’s been persistently floating around my mind, I realize that I’ve never written about writing. How odd.
There is nothing inherently dark or toxic about the girl who has signed up for too many student orgs, the boy who wins a new prestigious award every week, the person who consistently sets the curve in your most difficult class. What is dark and toxic — and scarier than any horror movie you may watch this month — is how we talk about these hectic schedules in the language of prideful struggle.
When I first began writing, I had an unfathomable obsession with imagery. For hours, I would park myself at my favorite table at Barnes and Noble with my latte in hand and write pages upon pages of descriptions. Taking in the senses around me, I’d let my mind wander to places that I could only dream of.
