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.
Last semester, I experienced the first of many lasts as a senior. I know. Weird. The thought that I am going to graduate in less than six months is beyond fathomable right now because I’m still not over how fast last year went by.
Once when I was young my mother brought home a bag of kumquats, a dozen of them, small and ripe, picked from a friend’s tree. I ate quickly, swallowing chunk after chunk of fruit until one of the chunks was a little too large for my throat.
My life savings are stored in seven 5.5 x 8.5 faux leather journals. A bit odd, but it’s true. When I was a child, and someone asked me the classic “If you had to save three things during a fire, what would they be?” my answer was always (in this order) my dog, my glasses and my journals.
A pain surged in my chest when I saw the pictures side-by-side on the wall. Even though I transitioned years ago, I tend to be very protective of that old self because of the backlash that I experienced at Hopkins in going from one state of being to another.
It’s been several years since my grandparents left Asharoken, but I cannot stop imagining Thanksgivings on the beach.
Hopkins presents the unified aim of managing waste and reducing any harmful release of chemicals into the environment. The University encourages all members of the faculty and student body to participate in this goal in the name of sustainability.
5, 6, 7, 8... Step here... Spin... Wait, shoot, I missed a beat. It’s okay. As the choreo chairs like to tell us, the audience won’t know you messed up if you exude confidence in your movements.
I’m an indecisive person. Deciding where to eat for lunch is as difficult a choice for me to make as deciding my majors was. I go over the options relentlessly until I feel (mostly) confident I’m making the right choice. I find it nearly impossible to act spontaneously.
I’m a graduate student in Engineering for Professionals (EP) at the Whiting School of Engineering. A previous article described how a Hopkins math professor discriminated against me, horribly, as a disabled person. The summer after that class, I reached out to Student Disability Services (SDS) for help.
It’s fall again, but this year is a little different. To me, fall is the time to reflect, to daydream about summer beach days and the tide rising to fill its vacancy, to remember the sunny shirtless days I spent on the roof reading The Alchemist and Where the Crawdads Sing.
“We can buy that for you,” my mom told 4-year-old me, “but your dad will have to sweat a whole wok full of sweat for us. Do you still want it?”
“Wait, so how are they going to make the beam of light that stops the meteor that’s magnetically attracted to the moon pool?” my friend asks me, equal parts confused, concerned and amused.
If you asked 8-year-old me to share a fun fact about herself, she’d tell you that she has so many pets she basically lives on a farm. She would probably even count them off for you, only exaggerating a little bit for dramatic effect, of course.
Mrs. Rogers was my first and only cello instructor, and she was, and still is, the sweetest lady. Lessons started with eating strawberry bonbons — a tradition I carry to every audition, concert and recital — and ended with three octave scales
August 16: the day I finally returned to Hopkins after the pandemic unpredictably stole a year from many college students. As I sat in the rental car with my parents and drove down the oh-so-familiar N. Charles Street, memories from freshman year flooded my mind, and I couldn’t help but feel teary-eyed at the sentiments from the past.
As a prospective lawyer, I have an embarrassing confession to make: I finally saw Legally Blonde for the first time this week. Whenever the movie would come up in conversation, I would always nod, smile and chuckle, hoping no one could tell I was bluffing my way through.
I applied to be a First-Year Mentor (FYM) on a whim, not expecting to actually be hired. Mostly, I applied so I could tell myself (and my parents) that I had at least attempted to get an on-campus job.
My morning routine in Urayasu, Japan consisted of eating a bowl of leftover curry for breakfast, walking my host family’s poodle around the park and chopping vegetables with my host mom as we watched reruns of her favorite game show.
Sitting on campus in between classes the other day, I looked out and saw a toddler chasing after soap bubbles. His grandma was sitting in a chair a few feet away, blowing these bubbles out of a circular wand, and there he was, running after them.
When I was 10 years old, I was standing in the hallway at school talking with a friend. I was wearing shorts. Sometime during our conversation, my friend looked down at my legs, then back up at me, and said, “You haven’t started shaving your legs yet? Doesn’t your mom let you?” The answer to both questions was “no,” but I didn’t know what to say.
