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.
Every day, I make it a point to have one great or good thing happen. I feel that it is important to have a daily highlight because otherwise all of the days start meshing into one another, and then you can’t remember the last time you washed your hair. That is unacceptable.
Canada’s most talented export, Drake, was scheduled to grace the cover of Rolling Stone this week; however, due to the untimely death of the beloved Phillip Seymour Hoffman, the Toronto-born hip-hop star was unceremoniously bumped from the cover.
As much as we absolutely dread the post-New York Fashion Week-stress-syndrome that consumes us when we’re left to bid adieu to American fashion for the remainder of the season, we must admit that being able to look back, extract our favorite trends, and incorporate them into our fashion vocabulary is our guilty pleasure.
We all patiently waited for our acceptance letters to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when we were 11, only to get an acceptance letter to Johnny Hopkins University at the age of 17. While we have come to appreciate (and, for some of us, love) this Muggle-founded institution, let’s let our imaginations tame a Nimbus 2000 (or is this too old-fashioned of a broom model now?) and join the two acclaimed schools in a harmonious celebration of knowledge and chocolate frogs.
Last January, the Washington City Paper published an article entitled “Is Restaurant Week a Rip-Off? We Did the Math.” In 2011, the New York Post had an article called “Restaurant Week totally bites!” The same year, Boston Magazine posed the honest and eye-opening question, “Me and My Big Mouth: Does Restaurant Week Need To Die?”
Last Friday, the seventh of February, would have been J Dilla’s 40th birthday.
As New York Fashion Week Fall 2014 made its highly anticipated visit this past week, we were expectedly delighted by the sights of Jill Stuart’s funky interpretations of the little black dress, Ruffian’s tapestry-printed dresses and ruffled collars (inspired by Petrus Christus’ 15th century portraits), and Rebecca Taylor’s assemblage of minimalist menswear-inspired pieces. But although we adored Christian Siriano’s elegant modern collection inspired by 1950s glamour and Alexander Wang’s structured monochrome wool mini dresses, can we really say we were artistically stimulated, or even surprised by each designer’s choice of inspiration and consequent execution of his designs? Would it really have been that difficult to anticipate that Siriano would choose to design a collection inspired by classic femininity à la Dior circa 1957, while Wang would focus on rendering the austere minimalism that contributed so highly to his popularity last NYFW?
There are times when I ask myself, what is the point of everything I’m doing? What is the end goal? Do I even have an end goal?
The last few weeks have seen a whirlwind of activity in the entertainment sphere and most of it is related to news that indubitably makes the general public lose the little faith we had in the giants we call celebrities.
If you think about it, resolutions make no sense. Practically speaking that is – since they almost never last. You always find yourself making all of these grand plans at the start of the year, only to pig out on the leftovers of that fantastic cake you had on New Year’s soon after.
When it comes to sartorially expressing oneself, there are two tactics that the strategic enthusiast employs. First, she identifies her charming quirks and current fascinations, and collects statement pieces capable of highlighting her unorthodoxy. These items may include –but are not limited to—leather fringed batwing tops, white hexagonal shades, and lace-up platform booties decorated with unicorns. This method essentially involves building what I like to call one’s “fashion repertoire,” or the visual sartorial vocabulary with which one identifies herself at the present moment.
Even before there were throwback Thursdays on Instagram, looking through old photo albums was always something my family and I ended up doing whenever there was a lull in activity. We must have at least 10 varying sizes of photo albums stacked in the kitchen closet. Every time we flip through the pages full of pictures of when we were all young, my mom and dad recount the stories that went along with a select few.
There is no more depressing time for a black female in the United States than during the months of February and March. The intersectionality of our race and gender smack us in the face for the 28 days of Black History Month as we reminisce on the hardships of being black, followed by the 31 days of reflecting on the struggles faced by women in this country.
I trust everyone feels refreshed after a much needed winter break. Over the break I went to see my family and then came back to school to prepare for Intersession. When I got back to campus, I was nervous and excited. Why? Because I was preparing to go to Brazil.
Chesapeake blue crabs steamed and tossed in Old Bay. Berger Cookies - shortbread cookies veiled with a layer of fudge.
It’s that time of year again, that magical span of Sunday evenings where the good viewing public gets to sit back and watch as our favorite artists and entertainers all ceremoniously pat each other on the back. That’s right, it’s awards season.
Shortly before the Thanksgiving break, the Hopkins Black Student Union tweeted the hashtag #BBJHU encouraging followers to include it in their tweets about what it was like to be black at Hopkins. And thus began a flood of tweets about the awkward, inspirational, hilarious and straight-up depressing tweets from Black Hopkins, a group of black students and alumni who are known for speaking out about the positives and negatives (mostly negatives) of the black Hopkins student’s experience.
In my mind I told him he could have all my favorite songs and entangled thoughts. He could tell me about the most boring days or play with my hair if he wanted. I said I wanted his voice, his dreams, his stubbornness, his morning kisses (and midnight ones, too), his stories, his worries, his passion, his tenderness, heck, his anything at all.
On All Saint’s Day in 1755, a huge earthquake struck Lisbon, destroying nearly every church in the city. The earthquake, which wiped out an estimated one-quarter of the population, not only destroyed a large part of the city but also greatly damaged the future of the colonial empire.
