A date at The Virginian resembles prom with a good friend
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.
With Charlottesville fall quickly approaching, many University students hope to explore the Blue Ridge mountains in between football games and mounting school work.
National Suicide Prevention Week is an annual prevention campaign which takes place from Monday through Sunday surrounding World Suicide Prevention Day on September 10th.
Quiet date leaves participants searching for a spark
1. Ice: For reasons unbeknownst to me, Italians seem to like their water lukewarm. It’s great, but it’s also not exactly thrilling when it’s twelve million degrees and you’ve just hiked two miles in the wrong direction and no one within those two miles speaks any English.
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.
After a long day of my summer internship at Georgetown University Hospital – my mind rubbed raw with stories of chemotherapy regimens and grave prognoses – I was in desperate need of a caffeine boost.
Concerns about the forced relocation of Rotunda Sing due to construction were quelled with melodious tunes Wednesday night, as a capella groups serenaded the audience on the South Lawn.
