Sitting in a folding chair next to neat piles of saffron, cumin and sumaq, a portly man with an unbuttoned linen shirt looked me over as I lingered to take a photo of his vibrant spices.
It is 10:11 p.m. and I am running. The sun set hours ago and my eyes are already beginning to droop from exhaustion, yet I move as quickly as my feet will take me.
The idea behind writing the honor pledge is fairly simple; it both affirms the student has not somehow failed to notice the concept of honor during his time at the University and requires the student to explicitly give his word. To me, however, the pledge is a ceremonial act.
In the past three months, I have started blushing. You’ve probably heard of it — it’s that thing stuffy old women did during the 17th century, except back then they could just faint to hide their shame, have their manservant Gregory bring over their smelling salts and blame it on their weak feminine constitution.
New York may be far from Virginia, but it’s not a “thirteen hours” kind of far. Over the summer, I drove my 1995 white Ford Taurus – a pretty little car with a turning radius comparable to that of a tugboat – from Charlottesville to Long Island for my brother’s high school graduation.
Coming to college, I had no idea how much I would miss being around real people. Now, we are all, of course, very real and I don’t mean to depreciate our value as University students, but I mean real people as in mothers and fathers, babies and grandparents, little sisters and big brothers.
There are several narratives of my experiences I could use to preface a column that attempts to explain my feelings about the rampant presence of sexual objectification on U.Va.
The smorgasbord of scribbled notes on the walls of any given cubicle give lonely, tired souls a sense of solidarity — and, of course, a source of entertainment when they just can’t focus any longer.
We sweat in lines of backpacks — sweat under arms and in places I didn’t know held pores. The trees of the Lawn don’t move in salute because the air holds them heavy and slow, their leaves still in oppressive late August heat.
Have I ever seen the movie? No. Have I ever been on a surfboard? No. So why, you might ask, did I ever take interest in the advertisement for a 1966 movie about two California surfers travelling around the world’s warmer waters, searching for the perfect crest? The reason is simple.
There exists a breaking point, though. At said point — no matter how much a club or leadership position or even an extra class can provide pleasure or a better perspective on life in isolation — the benefits of an activity, when thrown into an insanely life-loaded schedule, may dissipate.
Coming back to the University was a serious culture shock for me. I was unprepared for the pack of skinny, tan people who popped out of every corner.
The University has a way of sucking me in and keeping me so occupied that I forget to communicate with the outside world.
In recent years, critics of social networking have said the millennial generation’s desire to constantly capture, share and post photos devalues experiences, hampers memory and keeps us from truly engaging with our surroundings. There seems to be a consensus that using technology and being present are mutually exclusive.
Last Spring, I decided to spend the second half of my summer studying abroad in the University’s Oxford Summer Program.
What makes you a first-year is how you’re connected with 10,000 other young adults who, if not in the same boat, are at least in the same naval fleet.
I am a strong supporter of our nation’s law enforcement workers. I say this because when it comes to me personally, they often decide not to enforce the nation’s laws.
I grew up going to an all-girls, six-week summer camp nestled in the mountains of Virginia. Year after year, my friends would pester me, questioning why in the world I would want to spend my entire summer away from home without a phone, a computer or — gasp — boys. Every summer, I would go back for reasons I couldn’t fully explain.
I’m up at the crack of dawn this morning and weirdly happy about it. Actually, dawn is a stretch — the sky’s still purple and I can see all three stars visible from light-polluted Houston. My alarm went off at 2:50 a.m. On purpose.
Usually, I like to look at the world with a glass-half-full outlook — but in this one instance, viewing my time at college as half-empty is actually the more inspiring route.
