“I love this song!” I shout over the howl of the wind as my best friend and I cruise down 14th Street.
Near the beginning of Vampire Weekend’s self-titled debut album, the singer asks a question that will no doubt echo through history, “Who gives a [crap] about the oxford comma?” I like this album, but the question has always felt like a personal assault since I am an English major.
When darkness creeps into our lives, it’s hard to have faith.
I was going to submit an article about something lighthearted this week.
We walk quietly together, the lights and warmth of the Lawn behind us, through the construction and past the deepened slopes of Mad Bowl to our homes.
A couple of weeks ago in class, I seriously thought I might have to tackle someone. It happened in an “Unforgettable Lectures” class — and it was unforgettable, though not entirely for the reasons advertised.
Some may claim my sluggish behavior is a sign of senioritis — a virus difficult to diagnose. Contrary to popular belief and student-perpetuated myth, senioritis does not affect only those students on the cusp of graduation. I would hypothesize we are all born with a small dose of this poison and, unfortunately, there is no cure. No amount of illegal study drugs will save us.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
At last, my three-month journey to Japan has come to a close. Last week, my plane touched down in America, and I am finally back in the warm, snug arms of Springfield, Virginia.
