Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
I am much better at buying notebooks than I am at finishing them. In fact, I have a sizable collection of half-used notebooks, journals and diaries filling my bookshelf at home and my desk drawer here in Baltimore.
On Dec. 31, I laid in my bed and typed out all my New Year's resolutions. I had spent nearly thirty minutes looking for my journal — all to no avail — so my notes app had to do.
The century ride. 100 miles, straight. It’s a milestone that many cyclists hit at one point in their lifetime. However, as an amateur cyclist only two years into the sport, I never thought I would hit the milestone so soon.
I cut twelve inches of my hair off a couple of weeks ago. Well, not intentionally. I walked in to the salon, said that I wanted it as short as it could be without my resembling Dora and thought I was going to get a chic Vanessa Hudgens bob out of it.
I dread winter. Snow-covered street lamps and snowflakes are anything but beautiful to me — the snow has always had a habit of dampening my clothes just enough to intensify the bitterness of the air until it is maddening. And, rather than declare the season of joy and fellowship, Christmas lights have only signified a time of frozen extremities and suffocating layers of clothing.
So, where’s your hometown? It’s one of the most typical and easy conversation-starting questions. Yet, it can be a hard stump for someone with a multicultural, multi-regional background. The Merriam-Webster dictionary’s first definition of home is “one’s place of residence.” However, as a college student, I technically have two residences: one where my parents and siblings live and the other here in Baltimore. Plus, my physical home has changed quite a lot growing up.
Can you believe it? It’s that season of the year when we all joyfully sing holiday songs and Christmas carols. The lyrics that come to mind right now are “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.” I literally sang those words out loud and did a happy little dance right in the middle of the library!
2022: a year that everyone looked forward to after COVID-19. Leading up to this year, I made a list of things I wanted to do, and like most other people, only ended up opening it once or twice throughout the year. Now when I look back, I realize 2022 had totally different plans for me than I originally thought.
Rationally I know that “being forgotten” is an inevitability. With over eight billion people on this Earth and millennia of generations past, I am ultimately just another number, another statistic in the world. My studies in Public Health, with its focus on population-level impacts and statistics, serve to strengthen this rationalization.
My China is China, and Carson’s China is China. I don’t think that one is better than the other. My China is precious and full of familial ties, but there is yet another version, maybe thousands of versions, that are equally as important. Carson’s foreigner perspective didn’t corrupt this place; it just looked at it from a different angle, seeing walls and mountains that I had never noticed before.
“Hey, you! Can I be your sugar daddy?” This has so far been the most hilarious comment I have heard hooted to me on the streets of Baltimore, the city I have called home for nearly two years.
I spent most of my freshman and sophomore years weighed down by a constant sense of tiredness in my bones. But that was to be expected since I woke up at 5:30 a.m. three times a week to jump into a cold pool.
I am preparing to study abroad next semester. So far, this has mainly consisted of curating a new wardrobe on Pinterest, applying for a visa and — on a sadder note — grappling with the knowledge that this would be my last semester with many of my best friends at Hopkins.
When I interviewed at a medical school earlier this year, I felt the interview had gone ok. In preparation I practiced my answers with multiple mock interviewers, watched countless videos from past applicants and researched extensively on the school.
My mom was younger than I am now when she moved from Brazil to the United States. She met my dad, who is from New York, while they were both studying abroad at Tel Aviv University. At the age of 19, she left her home in Rio de Janeiro and transferred to college in New York to be with my dad.
In some sense, I write as a form of embodiment, a way for me to make real the things I cannot express outwardly. Writing is no longer something I want but something I need. I need it, just as much as I need water or shoes.
This Halloween weekend was spooky, for lack of a better term (there are definitely better terms to start this installment of our column off with — we just don’t know them).
These past few weeks have felt like an ensemble coming-of-age miniseries. For most of this semester, I have been practically living in some of my closest friends’ dorms and apartments.
One of the most obvious things that we notice in our everyday lives is that people are distinctly different. There are 7 billion people sharing the earth. But how many are considered normal? When are people considered abnormal?
Before the pandemic, I was a freshman still trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my time at Hopkins. I was preoccupied with my grades, my resume and being the best I could be. By the start of spring of 2020, I began to volunteer with the Baltimore chapter of the International Refugee Committee (IRC). I thought it was an excellent activity to get involved in, since I wanted to work with international organizations or the State Department in the future.
