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My impression of “college” was a place that determined who you would be, perhaps permanently. This idea haunted me, because I had repeatedly been told that I needed to obtain a certain level of college education in order to start my life right. If not, well, maybe that was it for me.
As the end of August drew near, I began to spot more and more cars filled with boxes and suitcases parked outside the AMRs and CharMar. After a semester and a summer of online everything — whether it be a class, movie watch party or an internship — seeing people walking around on campus was surreal. Watching the bright-eyed freshmen move their bedding, pillows and other school supplies out of their parents’ car trunks, I was reminded of how I arrived at Hopkins three years ago.
Matthew Dujnic attended Hopkins from 1992 to 1996. He knew on the day he arrived that he wanted to work on campus publications. But news wasn’t his bag, so The News-Letter wouldn’t see him until junior year, when he was roped in as the Editorial Cartoonist. Freshman year, The Black and Blue Jay got him instead — he was a writer and editor (and cartoonist) there for all of his four years. He became somewhat renowned for his weekly comic strip in The News-Letter, jhu.edu.
I woke up from my dream. My alarm mercilessly rang in the gray atmosphere. Even without looking at the window I knew today was a rainy day.
A puzzle piece went away, rolled around on different surfaces, grazing and bumping and came back with slightly different nooks and crooks. The curves aren’t quite the same and some parts had been left behind, chipped off. The rest of the puzzle board welcomes the returned piece; they missed her. What happens if the puzzle piece doesn't fit? Well, she tries anyways, but other pieces dig into her side and she does the same. Nothing’s intentional but it still hurts and they can’t back out now. They come from the same puzzle board. They are inseparable.
“Sometimes, when you've a very long street ahead of you, you think how terribly long it is and feel sure you'll never get it swept.”
I am a romantic in every sense and in particular, regarding the idea of love.
It’s 1884. Enola Holmes lives happily with her eccentric mother, far from society and its norms for women, but on the morning of her 16th birthday, she discovers that her mother is gone. The disappearance of her mother reunites Enola with her older brothers, Sherlock (yes, the detective) and Mycroft, who have both been long absent from her life. They barely recognize her.
In my last column, I boldly claimed that I had learned to listen to what I want through my study abroad experience in Sweden. Yet listening to my heart still proves to be a challenge. Even if I’ve wanted to follow my desires — my true inclinations — sometimes I didn’t know what they were. Every option has a flip side. One option seems better because of this, and the other seems good because of that. In another light, I have to lose something either way.
March 11 (the day before)
I love to fill out my iCal with blocks of things to do. It gives me the peace of mind that I have set a time for that particular task. Unfortunately, as Introduction to Psychology taught me, and as I have personally experienced, humans overestimate their productivity. Often I end up shifting my plans around because life likes to throw curve balls. For example, last week I took a spontaneous day trip to Paris to visit my friend.
Last month, I came across a New York Times essay by Ann Napolitano. In her piece, Napolitano shared that she had been writing letters to her future self since the age of 14. Every time Napolitano opened a letter from her past self, she saw how her values and self-understanding evolved over time.
What does it mean to go home? What, and where, is home?
Here’s the news: I’m studying abroad this spring in Stockholm, Sweden. I have been dreaming of it since my senior year of high school and I am more than thrilled. However, I was surprised by my own hesitance to commit when I received the email that I had been accepted to the program.
On August 4, I woke up at 7:30 a.m., even though it was a Sunday. Still not quite awake, I took the MARC train down to D.C with two friends. Our destination was Eaton D.C., the most artsy hotel I’ve seen: The entrance was decked with vintage vinyl, and it even had its own radio studio. That was where the 2019 Asian American Literature Festival was held.
Last summer, I bought The Idiot by Elif Batuman — partially because of its interesting title and partially because it had a buy-one-get-one-half-off sticker. It was collecting dust on my shelf until a month into the fall term. There couldn’t have been a better time to start reading it, given that it’s a book about the narrator Selin’s experience as a freshman.
Call me Elizabeth.
Many human traits are heritable. Unlike what most people confuse it to be, heritability is not simply whether a trait is inherited but a measure of how much of the variation in a trait can be explained by genetic differences. Your hair color, for example, is highly heritable because it is directly influenced by your parent’s genes. On the other hand, traits like the number of limbs you have or your lifestyle has low heritability.
Understanding the development of children’s numerical abilities