My friends would be concerned that I’m still hung up on a boy who said he’d go on a date with me just to play me. But I can’t help it. We all agreed that I would move on, but I still check to see if he texted back. It’s been a month. I know I talked a big game about self-love, but that doesn’t mean flipping my hair until I break my neck.
Thomas Edward Lawrence was always going somewhere. As a peculiar 15-year-old boy, he and his schoolyard friend Cyril Beeson rode around burial sites in his hometown of Oxford, England, voraciously studying whatever they could and presenting their findings to the local museum. Two years later, he would ride on bike throughout France, completing survey studies and observations of medieval castles throughout the land with that same friend. A few months later, he would enroll at Oxford University to begin his studies in history. There was something weirdly contradictory about the young man.
The amount of shame I have felt when uttering this over the course of my life is truly immeasurable. Speaking in Spanish, my great-grandmother would often ask me to go buy her groceries, which usually forced me to sit down and stare intensely at the computer, looking up every word before embarking on the painful journey. It was the same procedure every time; I rarely asked the employees where an item was, because I didn’t know how to pronounce it nor had the courage to try. Instead, I would simply show them the list and allow them to assist me, navigating through the entire store. “¿A qué te refieres no sabes español?
Let me begin this article the right way by saying that pedophilia is an unarguable wrong. It should not be normalized, defended or addressed in any way that does not distinctly paint it as such. No discussion of a situation involving victims should become so abstract that it neglects to mention the victims’ names: Anthony Rapp, Robert Cavazos, Tony Montana and Daniel Beal. My heart goes out to them and to anyone else who suffered abuse at the hands of Kevin Spacey. In a perfect world, these horrible incidents would never have taken place.
Let’s face it, while winter break is our light at the end of the tunnel, around the eighth day most of us are five pounds heavier and absolutely bored with our nondescript home lives. Sometime during that second week of blissful boredom, you open the little, red-flamed app that you had promised not to rejoin. A few swipes later, you’re sitting in your couch wearing warm flannel pajamas for the second day in a row, stuffing your face with holiday cookies, feeling that red-hot holiday jingle in your pants. And all of a sudden, you realize the holidays are actually stressful. At Cornell, you have the luxury of your own mattress and no parental supervision, so you never really have to sneak around (unless you’re into that, in which case, hell yeah), but at home privacy is a rare luxury.
There are only a few things I hate. I hate bananas gone brown. I hate overpriced plaid shirts that could have been thrifted for $10. I hate chasing after the bus in rainy weather. And I hate the idea that one day I might be a suburban mom.
The Cornell College of Business (henceforth referred to as “the College”) is the academic manifestation of what a New York dumpster fire looks like. Everyone knows it’s burning, no one’s doing anything about it, but there’s still a group of students using it for warmth because they were rejected from The Wharton School (which for the viability of this analogy, will be represented as a space heater situated in the lobby of a marble corporate building on Park Ave). The basis for this radical imagery is simple: two years after its feeble announcement, the College has failed to both produce results and a coherent path forward. Instead of giving us cross-school collaborations and world-class opportunities, the administration has sent us meaningless update emails, built a business center virtually inaccessible to undergrads and approved a logo that is depressingly unaesthetic. The consequences from the lack of change should be lucid for the administration: without passionate graduates, it will be troublesome to ensure a steady pipeline of donations to revive the moribund endowment.
Cornell under 60 degrees feels more like a battlefield than a college campus. It gets this way every year without fail, but the initial hints of winter are always jolting. As the daylight fades, so do motivation, energy and moods. For the average college student, these virtues are not especially high to begin with, so the impacts of a shift in seasons are profound. Thankfully, Cornell is generous with its winter break.
“This system of inherent modern day slavery was sure to have no end without fundamental solutions. This realization is what inspired me to pursue the study of the world of work to achieve my lifelong goal of improving the lives of others.”
This is a phrase from my ILR writing supplement for the Common App, submitted two years ago on this day. I stumbled upon this document last week searching for Common App materials that could be of any help for a current high school senior writing her essay. Rereading what had gotten me to this place, this utterly idiosyncratic school called ILR, I was nothing short of shocked. Surprised at how passionate I was, stunned by how much my interests have changed within such a short span of time.