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I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten oysters in my life, mostly because my mom is allergic to them, but a couple of weeks ago, I found myself eating an exorbitant amount of them with some college friends because of a 75-cent deal. There I was with my friends, ecstatically ordering oyster after oyster and laughing away, thinking, will life always be like this?
There’s a Maya Angelou quote that’s always resonated with me. It goes, “people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
A few weeks ago, I walked into CVS and printed out 114 4x6 photos. My intent was to make a photo wall in my apartment, but given that I am indecisive, I decided to just print a huge chunk of my favorites folder without truly thinking about the sheer quantity that I had selected. I returned to my apartment that afternoon with a thick stack of photos and a very loose plan of what to do with them.
As a Brazilian-American Jew, being Jewish is something that has always transcended my nationalities.
If you were to ask me where I imagined myself a year ago now, I probably wouldn’t have said Baltimore.
During these last four years, I’ve worked as a tour guide for the admissions office. When we reach the last tour stop at Decker Quad, I always wrap up by answering the question, “Why Hopkins?” For me, the answer is simple: the people.
I’m sitting here writing my last piece for my column in The News-Letter, and I am at a loss for words. I’ve thought about this moment for a while: what I’d write in my last piece, where in my life I’d be and what closing words I’d share.
While sitting at dinner during my class trip this past intersession to Brazil, I ordered a drink with a small yellow note attached to it. It said in Portuguese, “não espere ter tudo pra aproveitar a vida, se você já tem a vida pra aproveitar tudo.” Don’t wait to have everything to enjoy life, if you already have life to enjoy everything.
Dear my freshman-year self,
I’m 15 years old, and I’m sitting in my eye doctor’s office, learning how to put contact lenses into my eyes for the very first time. I’m practicing, yet I’m failing. My kind, patient eye practitioner says, “give it a drink” every time I fail, in reference to me soaking the contact lens with contact solution in order to make the process easier for my dry eyes. I chuckle. With every failure, I’m met with this same piece of advice. I try once more to place the lens into my eye, and once again, I fail. “Don’t worry, these things take time,” he says.
Growing up, I used to feel anxious before the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur. The thought of spending hours at my synagogue on an empty stomach made me feel uneasy, and I always found the holiday to be a lengthy challenge that I just had to push through without question.
Last summer, while working with patients with Parkinson’s disease, I noticed one elderly patient who was incredibly nervous about her upcoming mobility test. Right before beginning her exam, she stared ahead at the large digital clock in the room. When she saw that the time was 12:14 p.m., she immediately relaxed her shoulders and let out a deep sigh. Tears gently welled up in her eyes as she became filled with emotion, radiating comfort and relief.
During my last week of studying abroad in Seville, Spain, I finally had the opportunity to go rowing in the canals of the Plaza de España, something I had been looking forward to for the entire semester. Even though I lived a five-minute walk away from the Plaza, I somehow hadn’t carved out the time to go rowing until the last possible moment.
My mom was younger than I am now when she moved from Brazil to the United States.
When I first landed at the airport in Sevilla this past August to study abroad, I felt an overwhelming weight on my shoulders. In addition to the sweltering heat and my exhaustion from travel, I felt immensely unfamiliar with my surroundings and didn’t know how I’d fit into the city.
Three hours and 36 minutes.
Checklists, bullet points and post-its cover my notes. Maps and pamphlets are sprawled out on the table. Sitting in Barnes and Noble with a yellow notepad in front of me and a stack of travel books to my left, I rapidly write down ideas for my upcoming trip.
I’m sleeping on a narrow twin-size bed with one mattress stacked on top of another, holding two thin polyester pillows and a singular bed sheet. The fan above me spins slowly, creating the slightest breeze to ease the humidity, and the morning sun begins to creep in through the reflective windows.
A few weeks ago, I woke up bright and early at 8 a.m. on a Saturday to attend the Waverly Farmers Market. I am usually tempted to sleep in and rest on Saturday mornings; however, this particular Saturday, my friend Reese and I were motivated to go to the Bramble Baking booth at the farmers market, which always sells out before 9 a.m.
Sitting on campus in between classes the other day, I looked out and saw a toddler chasing after soap bubbles. His grandma was sitting in a chair a few feet away, blowing these bubbles out of a circular wand, and there he was, running after them, vigorously trying to catch every single one before they popped. Each time he caught up to a bubble, he let out a giggle and a massive smile.