“There were many opportunities to do the right thing, to make a difference for those families whose lives will never be the same. The pain and the horror of the whole process, of being relocated and displaced, of gentrified community — you can’t imagine the pain that goes through your mind.”
“As Black students begin the daunting process of applying to medical school, the structural racism and inequality that they experience is not always visible to the public,” Shavonia Wynn wrote in an email to The News-Letter.
The U.S. government classifies most colleges and universities as nonprofits because of their “educational purposes,” exempting them from federal income taxes. This means that, despite operating four campuses in Baltimore, Hopkins is not legally required to pay the city any property taxes.
Over the course of the past year, researchers have found that residents of low-income, majority-Black neighborhoods in Baltimore and cities across the country are at a higher risk of contracting and dying from COVID-19.
Due to restrictions for in-person labs, the University announced new changes to its curriculum to accommodate virtual classes. Students enrolled in labs related to biological sciences are now required to watch the Japanese program Cells at Work! along with its spin-off Cells at Work! Code Black.
It is with great embarrassment that I must share this testimony of mine. This story henceforth is my contribution to a greater and better public, so that anybody who can resonate with my struggles knows that they are not alone.
The Virginity Club launched a newly-revamped Hopkins Twelve contest on March 30. It is a pandemic-friendly sequel to the original Hopkins Seven, which challenges students to have sex in several designated locations across campus.
On Tuesday, junior Alex Smith assumed that his Zoom lecture would be like any other.
Freshman and self-proclaimed furry Azure Fowler was kicked out of Charles Commons on Wednesday after being found in a lounge area making love to a Jay the Blue Jay sex doll. Witnesses report that Fowler was completely naked except for his mask and that he wouldn’t stop shouting, “Wear a mask please!”
The Homewood Academic Council persecuted a group of students running an essay-writing business last Friday. This group, formally known as “LET OUR MONKEYS WRITE LLC,” was found to have captured a bevy of monkeys to perform the manual labor of their operation and, as stated in its business plan, “bolster capital accumulation and facilitate rapid returns on investment.”
To start off, I want to make it clear that I do not want to be writing this little piece. Furthermore, I do not care for or endorse any of the second-rate, vomit-inducing garbage published by senior Alex Hecksher Gomes. However, I felt my response was merited considering Hecksher Gomes’ extremely flawed and overly indulgent writing on me.
When I first met senior Alex Hecksher Gomes — well, I don’t quite remember. As far as I can tell he’s been present since my earliest memory, which says a lot about how insidiously infectious he has become in my mind. He taints the brain until there is nothing left without him in it.
Daniel Grumpf, a sixth-year student, presented a business proposal to the Student Government Association (SGA) at its weekly meeting on March 30. Grumpf’s plan is to normalize, even mandate, wearing fish bowls instead of face masks around campus.
In November of 2019, I started dating a fellow News-Letter writer. Things were terrific until that fateful day when he decided to run for an editor position. At first I was ecstatic that my boyfriend had so much power, but it didn’t take long before I realized that I was bearing witness to the creation of a monster.
I had no idea the situation would get this bad. This is a chronicling of my experience with the athlete apocalypse. I’m writing these journal entries to warn people about the dangers that the Hopkins athletes may pose to our campus, and I will also offer ways to help students adequately prepare for isolation.
For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to sing — when nobody’s around, that is. I frequently host late-night karaoke parties for one, wail in the shower like nobody hears me and hum in the kitchen when I’m alone. Music has always been my coping mechanism for dealing with stressful events.
The pandemic forced communities across the globe to shelter in place and it closed many of the businesses and venues we’re used to hanging out in. Even in spaces where we are allowed to be around our fellow quaranteens, we were (and still are) required to maintain a distance of six feet.
The first ode to joy was a poem; then it was the chorus of a symphony. My own little ode to joy comes as a video that captures brief moments of joy and its various forms — contentment, wonder, glee, amusement, bliss — all of which I experienced on an ordinary autumn day.
Music is powerful. It is the language of the soul, a collection of stories — stories of love, joy, heartbreak, failure, success — that anyone can tap into and relate to. Sometimes, if we let it, music has the greater ability of allowing us to feel things we never imagined, to feel emotions beyond our own scope of understanding.
Soon after quarantine began, I realized that I tended to run away from my negative emotions. I’d channel my anxiety into The News-Letter’s all-consuming, weekly production cycle. I’d hide my sadness by flitting about M-Level. Bury my emptiness at Power Plant Live!. Manifest my stress through low-grade hypochondria.
