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Welcome back to the couch; Sorry there’s so little space.
Have you heard of Albin Lee Meldau yet? Well, if you haven’t, then you are about to be blown away. With his perfectly graveled voice, which reminds me of James Arthur or Ed Sheeran, Meldau is sure to impress. But it’s not just his vocals, Meldau’s rhythms and brand new music video are also top notch and guaranteed to keep your attention.
I wasn’t all that rebellious of a kid back in elementary school. There were a few days where I brought my Game Boy to school. Occasionally, I put more duck sauce on my chicken fingers than I was supposed to. I’ll admit I did cheat on an exam on U.S. trivia once in fifth grade because I hadn’t been paying attention to the last week’s worth of classes. (Nowadays, I just accept my impending failures.) But these were all one-off or otherwise infrequent incidents.
Do you ever look at a worm and wonder what it was doing all winter? While the rest of us were suffering through exams and flu season, what were the things that wriggle and crawl doing? Well, wonder no more, for I am about to tell you.
Red twig dogwood
It’s analogous to the years following puberty in humans (otherwise known as college). However, there is such a thing as a carnivorous caterpillar, though they don’t eat flies.
We live in an era of press sabotage, attempted destabilization and absurd exclusion. I don’t have to mention Trump’s name for you to know who I’m referring to. Given our circumstances, journalists and publications have a responsibility to remain committed and come together to produce the best work possible. That’s what the Panama Papers represent: commitment to our cause.
“I mean, I did pretty well in high school, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Run Boy Run” by Woodkid: I just heard this song for the first time the other day, and it struck me as extremely cinematic. It has very dense, soaring music, but the words are simple and easy to understand. I automatically imagine a scene of someone running through a forest when I listen to it.
The fact that the administration’s foreign policy seems less of a policy than a collection of vague, explicitly-to-subtextually aggressive statements has only been contributing to this pattern.
The following will be my attempt to pitch a new form of poetry that I recently learned about and that I think is amazingly refreshing and innovative.
When I was 11 I met my grandparents for only the third time. I had vague memories of them from my toddlerhood. Here was a grandfather with a crooked smile, a grandmother who really liked floral print, but I was keenly aware, even back then, that I didn’t actually know anything about either of them. But now was my chance. I could finally know them as more than photographs and the occasional anecdote from my mother’s childhood.
I sat on my mom’s bed in my sleep-shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. She asked me again and again what was wrong. I had only been home from school for two days, surely nothing could have happened in those two days to upset me so much.
If you’re reading this, know before you even start, that you are about to learn one of my best-kept secrets. If you already knew this, know that this means I trust you beyond belief. If I already told you this, know that you mean the world to me. You listened, and you didn’t treat me any differently because of this. If you didn’t know, all I can hope for is that this doesn’t change the way you see me. I’m throwing it out in the open.
My family is deeply religious. My father’s side is wholly Irish Catholic. My mother’s side is not Irish, but my grandparents on her side were sure as hell Catholic, and, of course, so is she. I believe we may have some Baptists in the family somewhere but I have not heard much about that.
It’s always the quiet ones. That’s what they tell me anyway. I’m pretty sure the whole expression is, “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” but to be honest, that doesn’t help me understand it much. Do people expect me to jump out from behind their blackout curtains just as they’re settling in for the evening? Steal the highlighters I borrow from them? Occasionally say something snarky? The horror.
You’ll know it when you see one. We sit in the front row of every class, answer every (rhetorical) question, flood review sessions and the 6 p.m. JHMI shuttle and follow professors around like lost puppies until we’re sure they’ll write us a letter of recommendation. Hopkins is our battleground, and we are feared and despised by our peers and faculty alike.
I’ve spent the last year trying to write screenplays and short stories about teenage girls struggling to come out to their families and friends, and one question always came up from my peers in workshop and my professors: “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for her to come out.”
"You’re a man now! Stop crying.”