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.
There’s a Marvel superhero you may have heard of if you’re into really obscure comics (like me). She’s sort of the Aquaman of the Marvel world, in that she’s often tragically underestimated to the point of mockery. Her wonderfully rhythmic name is Doreen Green. However, you might know her as Squirrel Girl.
Now that I am solidly into my second semester here, I’ve naturally been reflecting on my time in America thus far and have decided that now would be a good time to share some of the things that, six months into living here, I find (for lack of a better word) weird.
Despite living in “Seattle” all my life, in truth, there has always been a body of water separating me from authenticity. My hometown of Mercer Island, a suburb a few miles east of the Emerald City, is notorious for its culture of affluence — my preferred euphemism for snobbery.
ut to me, this book is relevant not just for its depiction of an ethically controversial medical procedure, but it’s also relevant for how it believably depicts the intricacies of family dynamics.
Another full week is almost over. But there’s something a bit strange about that statement. By now, many of us have likely forgotten this, but there was a national holiday just a few days ago. President’s Day went by with nearly no acknowledgement by anyone on campus, let alone a day off from classes
When you come out, you get a lot of things. You get an ID card from the Human Rights Campaign. You get a welcome basket with a gift card for a free body piercing. And you get a fuckton of expectations about your gender expression.
Last September, I woke up early on a Thursday morning and took an Uber to the Planned Parenthood clinic in central Baltimore.
There was this girl once who had been sexually assaulted by someone she knew. This girl hid from it for a very long time. She pushed it down, down, down so that it did not exist and the memory was just a dream. She forgot though, that reality has a way of making itself apparent to her.
Clarissa was a passionate collector of the small toys that were dispensed in capsules from the gumball machines in front of grocery stores. Her first full collection, comprised of mini Sailor Moon bobbleheads, had been paid for by the quarters her dad collected from his addiction to vending machine snacks.
I’m a 22-year-old college senior, and I have never kissed anyone. It’s not for lack of attraction or for any kind of religious reasons. It just never happened.
Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years wondering how it might feel. From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow dance at their 50th wedding anniversary: The world around me was teeming with romance.
I have been dating my girlfriend, Sydney, since Valentine’s Day in the eighth grade. Yesterday marks our seven-year anniversary.
For better or worse, I’m mostly attracted to boys. But in the last few months I’ve started to think about other labels. And that terrifies me.
This Wednesday, as couples celebrate their love and single folks unify in shared independence, another humble holiday transpires below the surface — the beginning of Lent.
The friend zone. The proverbial Sunken Place in which people hate to be caught. For some, it could be the worst possible thing that could ever happen.
It was a particularly brisk day — the kind of fall day that teeters right at the edge of winter — when I crossed 31st Street last semester and made my way to the Counseling Center for my very first appointment.
This article had the potential to be the most stereotypically millennial thing I’ve ever written, aside from a caption I came close to posting on my finsta at 2 a.m. last week, in which I called the latest Snapchat update a sensory overload and a grossly inefficient redesign. (Seriously, kids, don’t download it.)
It is nice, I suppose, to be told that as women, we don’t need men to kick ass. It would be nicer, though, if we women had the luxury of exploring our sexuality without feeling that our power would be somehow diminished.
Math is like the jar of Nutella sitting on my desk while writing is like the jar of chocolate hazelnut spread on my roommate’s desk.
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I have decided to finally write about my namesake Catwoman, aka Selina Kyle, and her famously tumultuous relationship with Batman, aka Bruce Wayne, as portrayed on Fox’s Gotham.
