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Serving the University Community Since 1890

Mimi Montgomery

The weight of words

As an English major, I invariably deal with a lot of words. Poems, essays, short stories—whatever form they’re in, I’ve experienced them.

Life isn't a BuzzFeed quiz

Thanks to BuzzFeed, I know more about myself than I ever thought I wanted to. I know which Olsen twin I would be, which character on Gilmore Girls I would date, even which 19th century writer most accurately matches my personality.

The art of the interview

I went down to New Orleans this past week to embark on a right of passage every college student must eventually face: job interviews.

Learning the definition of success

Throughout my entire childhood, I was convinced I was going to be famous. I spent an inordinate amount of time alone in my bedroom practicing my opera scales, calling our voice mail and refusing to let my parents pick up the phone so I could record myself singing and listen back to it.

Showing you care

Whenever I call people to talk on the phone, they always sound surprised I am reaching out to them so directly, like something must be wrong or else I would have sent a text.

Stuck with me

I can still remember the day my little brother was born—January 1st, 1994. There was a picture taken of me talking to my mother as she lays in the hospital bed, wearing my bright blue “I’m a sister!” sweatshirt and remaining blissfully unaware of the small, sleeping baby in the background.

Debunking the hero myth

It’s always funny how the smallest things can make lasting lifelong impressions on you — a certain song, a commercial on TV, or just a phrase from a book.

Learning to live alone

I am the type of person that picks up her phone to call someone the moment I am left alone on my way to class or in my car.

Finding the heart in home

I have never been more excited or ready for Thanksgiving break than I am this year. I can say this with full certainty as I sit on the fourth floor of Alderman, my eyes feeling dry as I stare at my computer screen for another solid hour and the little white squares on my iCal taunting me with the days left between me and going home. “Going home” used to be an expression casually tossed around as I climbed into my car after a day of high school or left my friend’s house after a night spent out, but now, as a fourth year in college who has spent the past 3 1/2 years living by myself, it means something more, something different. “Going home” now means packing up a small parcel of my life here at the University and taking it back to the place that constituted my life for 18 years.

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