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First Year Seminars (FYS) seem to be one of the most defining features of the “Hopkins First-Year Experience.” From uncovering the secrets of “Why We Science?” to snacking in “The Literature of Food,” there seems to be an endless supply of knowledge ready to be unveiled by the next unsuspecting freshmen.
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.
Last week, I caught a particularly annoying cold and lost my voice. As I showed up to class armed with masks and copious quantities of hand sanitizer, I noticed that I wasn’t raising my hand during lectures nearly as much as I usually do. I wasn’t asking my professors questions or answering theirs because of my voice; I didn’t bother trying to speak because I knew it wouldn’t work. Its silencing effect was annoying, and it was particularly irksome because this wasn't the first time my voice had held me back.
I want to let you in on a secret. Or, rather, a lesser known fact: The USS Constellation was originally built by a Stodder! Cue the double-check of my last name.
I let letters define my intelligence. The jumble of alphanumerical descriptions on my graded assignments define my worth in my eyes; I allow them to present themselves as my reflection. I deem myself to be condemned if they do not correlate to the first two letters of the alphabet. This doctrine feeds the monster of academic validation, allowing him to pounce on me and scold me for not being good enough.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about the things that I’d done for the last time without knowing it. My dad put my hair into a ponytail for the last time on one random school morning in 2014. I played my final solitaire game on our crusty computer in 2016 right before it shut down for good, never to be opened again. Although I’ve never been a Directioner, I fantasized about the possibility of a One Direction reunion just a few months ago, but never again now that Liam Payne passed away.
I’ve never been good with change; in fact, it terrifies me. More specifically, I’ve never been good with letting people go. Throughout orientation week at Hopkins, I would wake up in my dorm wishing I could go back to my childhood bedroom and listen to my parents’ voices drifting in from the living room. Even the thought of this was enough to make me burst into tears; I would FaceTime my mom telling her that I wanted to go home and had picked the wrong college. Later on in the day, I would incessantly text my best friend that I missed her and didn’t connect with anyone at Hopkins. “Did you really try to talk to anyone?” she would ask. I'd respond with a quick “Yes!” even though the truth was no.
Over fall break, I voted in my first election. But that wasn’t the biggest “first” I experienced. That week, I was also called something I had never been called before: a “fucking libtard.”
As the end of my college experience draws closer, I’m forced to think about what comes next. And what does come next? I, for one, have no idea. I’m doing all the right things (I think): applying to jobs, reaching out to alumni, leveraging my experiences, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But it’s really scary to leave academia.
Something about free-floating 35,000 feet in the air watching the sun come up or city lights sparkle down below is oddly calming. Sometimes, I wonder how much time I’ve spent untethered to anything except for whatever metal tube with wings I’m currently sitting in, and, coming from the opposite side of the country, it’s probably quite a lot.
I have a wall inside of me that I think is made of concrete. It has taken me 17 years to recognize it, 18 to acknowledge it, and 19 to write it all down in a Voices article for The News-Letter.
While I personally don’t recall the exact moment my parents told me I was going to have a younger brother, I laugh every time I watch the VHS tapes. I was so upset — almost in tears. At the time, I was deep in my Barbie era, and all I could think about was not having a sister to dress up and play with; though, to his dismay, my brother, Krish, did end up going through that phase with me anyway.
I was 21. It was summer. My roommate sliced a white peach on the kitchen table.
More often than not, I’m thinking about writing fiction. And, despite this column’s partial intention of being a way to document whatever’s been persistently floating around my mind, I realize that I’ve never written about writing. How odd.
You should all be very proud of me because this week, I only got five hours of sleep. No, not per night: in total! I know, I know. You can hold your applause. This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and I ran a half-marathon. Then, I bravely suffered through eight midterms in a row (I got perfect scores on each and every one, a reward for how little I slept, of course). After classes, I did all of my homework and studied for 12 hours, and then I went to my research lab, followed by a volunteering shift for the organization I run, followed by an extremely important GBM for the club that I am the president of. I am the most productive human being on planet Earth. Did I mention how difficult my major is? Did I mention that I didn't have time to eat today? Did I mention how little I've slept this week? Five. Hours. No, not per night. In. Total. Yeah.
I was told not to begin a relationship during my senior year of high school. Everyone said it would be too much: balancing school, work, and applying to college — which, with any luck, would have me moving far away by the end of the year and long-distance wasn’t something I wanted to exhaust my time and energy trying to make work.
Scrolling mindlessly on Tiktok last week, I saw a video of an elderly woman, captioned: “I asked my nonna what her greatest insecurity was when she was little. She said she didn’t have time for that because of Mussolini.”
I remember locking my door, isolating myself away from the entire world. Sitting on the messily carpeted floor, my knees pulled up to my chest, crying into rolls of crumpled toilet paper. A few minutes later, I’d open my door and eat with my family at the dinner table like any other day. It was a seamless switch — a quick wipe of the eyes, a deep breath and the world went on as if nothing had happened.
When I first began writing, I had an unfathomable obsession with imagery. For hours, I would park myself at my favorite table at Barnes and Noble with my latte in hand and write pages upon pages of descriptions. Taking in the senses around me, I’d let my mind wander to places that I could only dream of.
I have a brief memory — it’s more of a feeling than a memory — of my kindergarten teacher playing blocks with me because I was too shy to play with the other kids. I have very few other memories of this time in my life, obviously, so I can’t verify it. But, as I said, it might be more of a feeling than a memory, an image my brain conjured up based on the emotions I’ve felt all throughout my childhood. Whether it’s true or not, the emotions are real, and they’re the same emotions I felt my first week at Hopkins.