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.
This week I shall be roasting one of Netflix’s original movies The Kissing Booth. If you haven’t seen it, consider yourself a lucky one.
“If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate,” Elbert Hubbard once said.
I. I sat as the youngest between seven cousins and countless relatives, eating our own version of a belated Thanksgiving. Between mouthfuls of dumplings and rice cakes, I saw my aunt’s eyes crinkling into a smile.
So it’s junior year, and it sucks. I thought the transition would be easier because I’ve been doing this whole thing for two years now.
I cannot understand Urdu literature. I cannot read Urdu poems. And I feel like a part of me has been taken from me. Urdu is the language of love, the language of the sufis, the language of the poets and now the language that has been snatched from me because of my colonized history.
As I begin the second year of this column, I think it is fair to say that I really have no problem discussing my limited-income status. It has always been strange to me that people discuss finances in hushed tones. It is seen as rude to ask about anything related to income or economic standing. But why?
My grandma couldn’t cook. This may come as a shock to anyone who’s watched me prepare, order or eat a meal, since by most accounts I resemble a jaded nonna in those moments, but it’s true. Her kids and grandkids with especially generous palates may object (I can already hear the 30+ member family group chat clamoring in protest), but in my humble opinion, Patricia Guerriero was a decidedly lousy cook.
Here at Hopkins, you can always find people ready to talk about the journey they took to find the clubs that are important to them. They’ll tell you how they walked around the Student Involvement Fair (SIF); became completely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of clubs trying to recruit them; signed up for 50 different club mailing lists; followed up with five; and then finally found the two or three groups that were the most important to them.
With the beginning of classes comes the inevitable internal struggle between focusing on academics, being social and getting enough sleep. We all go through the same thing; classwork piles up, and somehow every single party is held on the same night every single lab is due, while every friend you’ve ever made crawls out of the woodwork and wants to catch up over coffee.
Baltimore, I have a confession: I snuck away and spent my summer in Washington D.C. Our nation’s capital may be a quick MARC train ride away, but the city and its culture lies in stark contrast to our home here in Charm City.
Everybody tells you when you’re a freshman that college is a time to explore, try new things and discover who you really are. Everybody tells you to talk to everyone you meet during O-Week, explore every major at Hopkins and sign up for the thousands of clubs that are at the Student Involvement Fair.
To borrow a phrase coined during a “simpler” time, that the personal is political, I dare to claim the opposite is true today: the political is personal. In an era of sad nihilism, when bigotry and discrimination are boiled into our everyday lexicon and we have become self-obsessed with our national concerns — of which there is no shortage — to me, the political has truly become just that. Personal.
I) At age six I told my mom to put away my dresses because I needed pants to play wallball with the boys.
Every year, a good portion of this campus fills out their financial aid forms. Nobody has ever described this process as fun. For many of us our future at Hopkins is determined by the amount of aid we get, and that’s stressful. You have to be on top of all the different release dates, due dates, processing times and so on, and that’s stressful. Many times the financial aid office can be hard to reach as they take their time to respond to emails or forget to return calls all together, and that’s stressful.
Some of you may remember me or my column from the past three years of The News-Letter. You’re probably asking why I’m still here on campus now that I graduated.
As the new school year is ushered in, it is accompanied by a slew of new music. And the breakup of Miley and Liam (RIP for real this time). But I digress. We recently were blessed with Lana del Rey’s Norman Fucking Rockwell and Miley Cyrus’ new single, “Slide Away.” Both are dreamy, soft summer bops.
On August 4, I woke up at 7:30 a.m., even though it was a Sunday. Still not quite awake, I took the MARC train down to D.C with two friends. Our destination was Eaton D.C., the most artsy hotel I’ve seen: The entrance was decked with vintage vinyl, and it even had its own radio studio. That was where the 2019 Asian American Literature Festival was held.
Apparently, you are made from the places you are from. If that is true then I must be a battlefield because Karachi was made with the blood of the long standing warring factions of the Muhajir and the Pathan.
No matter where you go, or who you are, the beginning of a college career is always filled with anxiety. Am I smart enough to be here? Will people like me here? Did I make the right choice? These are ideas going through everyone’s heads, and for the most part, we are all aware of how they can shape our acclimation to Hopkins.
