Last year, the University unveiled a new initiative that would require two-thirds of all campuses’ electricity nationwide to come from solar power. This was the next step in the University’s 2010 pledge to reduce its carbon emissions by 51 percent by 2025.
I am a history buff. Lucky for me, I am not the only student here that has adopted historical research as a pastime. To quote Mark Twain, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.” The past can thus serve many purposes, and for our contemporary world, the best we can do is, well, learn from it.
When we consider the question of why climate change is bad, we tend to think of a number of reasons. These may include greater frequency of wildfires, threats to agriculture, ecological damage, decreased air quality, more hazardous weather conditions due to anomalous ocean temperatures and greater frequency of vector-borne diseases, just to name a few.
At first, all was quiet on Homewood Campus. In the weeks since students and faculty fled due to the coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic, campus security reported few disturbances, save for a few intoxicated students wandering the premises.
In an email sent to the student body on Monday, University President Ronald J. Daniels announced that commencement for this year’s graduating seniors will be conducted virtually on the multiplayer online game, Minecraft.
This past week, all the buzz around the Hopkins community has surrounded how the University would handle grading this semester as a result of the coronavirus. As petitions advocating for A/A-, optional Satisfactory/Unsatisfactory and every grading system in between circled in group chats everywhere, many questions arose about the University’s institutional responsibility.
The Student Government Association (SGA) held its first weekly meeting over Zoom last Tuesday, March 24. Amid their usual discussions about student club policies and vague ideas of transparency, the council passed a bill banning the coronavirus from Homewood Campus. The Corona <<<<<< Natty Boh Bill outlines the concrete ban on COVID-19 and the process by which SGA senators will personally remove the disease from Hopkins and all students.
The coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic has been a source of distress for students across America, who will miss the joys of a college experience this spring. At Hopkins, however, little has changed. For Hopkins students, who spend most of their time crying in windowless rooms in the bowels of Brody, self-quarantine has been college life as usual.
The News-Letter has discovered that Hopkins brought coronavirus (COVID-19) to the U.S. so that students wouldn’t be disappointed by the inadequacies of this year’s Spring Fair. Due to an organizational review led by Student Leadership Impediment (SLI) Director Calvin Hobbes, Jr., the annual springtime celebration was months behind on planning this year.
The month of March was pretty bad for Hopkins students, from campus closing to commencement being cancelled, but there has emerged a singular bright spot in the darkness of COVID-19. It was announced today, April 1, that Spring Fair will take place this year via Zoom. Students will be able to access the only event that makes Hopkins worth attending via a link sent to their student emails.
I’ve never really thought myself as a rebel. Stubborn? Sometimes. Difficult? It depends on the person and the situation. But a rebel? Not really.
I am Laís. I am Latinx, I am Hispanic, I am Brazilian, I am a woman. These are all my “identities,” and I accept these identities now, but that wasn’t always the case. I know in my heart I’m apart of the Latinx community, but why do I feel like because I have white skin and European heritage, that I’m not a valid member, even when it’s the identity I fit into the most?
I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100 percent that b—. Well, not quite, but love you Lizzo. I took a DNA test in January, got the results a month later and found out that I’m not 100 percent anything. Don’t worry, it wasn’t some shocking turn of results — I knew my DNA would prove to be a multicolored pie chart.
There is a cemetery in Korea whose name I do not know, far away from Seoul and deep in the mountains, where my maternal ancestors are buried. Apart from my grandfather who passed when I was eight, I do not know their names or faces.
What does it mean to go home? What, and where, is home? To most, physical roots are important to our identities: where we were born, where we live and where we come from. Sometimes, I’ve seen people get offended when someone from just outside of New York City say that they are from New York. I understand the indignation; I also have the urge to call out people who claim they are from Seoul when they aren’t. But why do we have this urge? Why does it bother us when someone who is not “really” from your hometown claims to be from there?
Unlike Macklemore, when I was in the third grade, I didn’t think that I was gay. During my childhood, I was instead a mouthpiece of heteronormativity. While in kindergarten, a friend declared that she would one day marry a woman. I argued to her that this was impossible. Even earlier, when a boy in my preschool class showed me his navy-blue fingernails, I insisted that his hands resembled a girl’s.
It’s been over a year since I first arrived at Hopkins, full of hopes, fears and vague expectations for my college experience. That arrival entailed much fanfare from overenthusiastic FYMs and even more awkward introductions and icebreakers between me and my classmates. I expected that, and I’ll even admit I loved it in its cringyness.
“Well, you know, you look... different.” So said one of my friends during a casual dinner conversation one night. We noted that we were the only non-Asian people in the Japanese restaurant. The talk turned to race and how we ourselves identified. Both of us are Jewish, and both of us identified as white.
Since moving to Baltimore and being at Hopkins, I’ve realized more and more the ways in which my upbringing in essentially the middle of nowhere influenced me. I spent as much time as possible during my childhood years outside, running through the woods and jumping in the lake with my little brother. The gravel road we lived on had virtually no traffic and we knew our neighbors well, so we had free reign to explore the acres of forest surrounding our log home. This may sound incredibly primitive, but one of the favorite activities of my siblings and I was to patrol the woods for dead trees and knock them down. Yep, it was a blast.
“This old heart of mine been broke a thousand times” plays from the speaker on my desk as I finish up my homework for the night. I fall down a wormhole, and I’m back in the passenger seat of my dad’s Ford F150. The heat is blasting, and the “heater seat,” as we call it, is on level three. It’s the middle of winter in Valdosta, Georgia, so it’s about 45 degrees. We hot-blooded country folk can’t handle it.
