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.
Cycling in this city can be a treacherous task, but as I’ve gotten used to it, I’ve found that it has enabled me to finally appreciate the allure of Amsterdam.
The first semester of college, my independence was tested more than ever. There was the first time I was late for or skipped a class and had no one to blame but myself. Or the first time I forewent studying an extra hour for a test to irresponsibly hang out with the cute guy I had just met. Last but not least, the first time I ate six bowls of mac and cheese and a few brownies, and then skipped the gym, simply because I could.
It’s no secret to those who know me even a little bit that I am from Pakistan. From my Introduction to Fiction and Poetry (IFP) stories to my plays to my poems, a part of my work is always dedicated to the country which has left an indelible mark on my identity.
When it comes to taking a stance on big policy issues, Larry Hogan is no liberal. But in a state dominated by Democrat voters, Hogan has maintained an outstanding approval rate. With midterms quickly approaching, he holds a 16-point lead against Democratic challenger Ben Jealous. If re-elected, Hogan will be the first Republican governor to serve a second term in 60 years.
At a school like Hopkins, it can be hard to find quality time to connect with people. Our lifestyle is conducive to shutting in without realizing it, and in those moments, we distance ourselves from friends and worsen their own solitude. This has been especially true as the nearly semester-long midterm season has finally begun to so rudely introduce itself.
1) It begins with poetry in a Tinder bio and a reason not to be together. It escalates when he asks if you’re spontaneous.
Chances are that if you’re here, you’ve always had a passion for knowledge, whether it manifested itself in a love of books (as was the case for me), an intense interest in taking things apart and reassembling them, or in playing “doctor” and “operating” on your siblings.
Roughly a year ago, I wrote my first column for The News-Letter. In an attempt to “introduce myself” and this column, I unwittingly put myself into a box. I labelled myself as “the British girl” because that’s what I had already been labelled as by most people I’d met just a few weeks into my first semester here. I allowed myself to stay within that box, however, and I can only blame myself for that.
It’s been 11 years since I read the very first Hardy Boys book, but if you were to ask me about its ending, I would be able to tell you everything about how Frank and Joe Hardy solved their first mystery together. Because of my really good memory when I was younger, I never understood how people could read the same book or watch the same movie over and over again. If I already know how the story is going to go, then what is the point of seeing it all unravel again?
In my last column, I discussed the opportunity gap at Hopkins for low-income students, like myself. However, in doing so, I feel as if I misrepresented myself, so I want to make one thing clear: I am an extremely privileged person.
I briefly touched upon what it can be like riding a bike last week, in the delightful city of Amsterdam, along with its trials and tribulations, but it was far too brief. Cycling is what makes the Netherlands tick. One cannot possibly talk about this country without mentioning the way its people roam the streets and take ownership of this space.
You’re with your friends, and you wash your hands thoroughly to get the Dorito crumbs out from under your fingernails. You humorously blurt out, “Sorry guys, I’m really OCD.”
I’m liberal, yet I recently went to the pro-Trump Mother Of All Rallies (MOAR). I’m gay, yet I recently went to a rally where many of the attendees supported a president whose statements and actions have consistently attacked the LGBTQ community. I’m Jewish, yet I recently ventured into a space full of individuals who support a president who has empowered Neo-Nazis.
I never thought I would be able to say I’ve danced (and won) the “In My Feelings” challenge in front of Kevin Plank, the CEO of Under Armour. I did not exactly volunteer with the intent to do so, either; in a classic story of overenthusiastic-intern-volunteers-for-literally-everything, I did not even know what I was signing up for before the spotlight was burning a hole through my forehead.
I don't know how to write this. I have been wanting to write it for a very long time, but there's always something wrong with the words that flow – at some point it was that I wasn't ready – still too close to the problem to write about it. Then, I was too emotional, too unstable. And at every point there was something or the other that prevented me from writing.
As we approach the one year anniversary of the bombshell reports on Harvey Weinstein’s decades-long reign of sexual terror over Hollywood and the global explosion of the #MeToo movement, the press and social media are burgeoning with questions of redemption.
1. Meet somebody in the back of the bus – the place where three seats face three seats. Your friends and you will fill up one row and two boys will sit down in the other. After a few minutes on the circulator, Stanford sweater will ask if you girls go to Hopkins? Your friend should say yes. The other boy has cauliflower ears and you wonder if he’s a fighter like you, he is a pale man with a ginger beard and rough hands.
A few years ago, I went to a concert with two of my close friends. It was a punk festival at the Ottobar that featured a few different performers, but we were most excited to see the local band Snail Mail, who only had one EP out at the time. After some bizarre sets during which we all almost got punched in the face by a flailing guitarist and listened to a woman remix her screams on an electric keyboard (my one friend still jokes that I was the only person able to dance to the rhythmic screeching), Snail Mail came out.
Nobody warned me before I went to The Book Thing of Baltimore that it would be at least an hour-long endeavor in pacing and scanning shelves for anything that caught my eye.
Earlier this summer, news of Starbucks’ decision to eliminate plastic straws sparked celebratory progressive cries, cynicism about banning a little piece of plastic and a healthy number of memes. Internet buzz aside, are our straws truly endangered? They’re on the decline, but the wave of progress isn’t as rapid as it may seem.
