Life is strange. Last week, I participated in one of the most powerful demonstrations I’ve been a part of at Cornell. I found myself crying outside of the Chi Alpha meeting as Chris Donohoe ’09 and Jarrod Schaeffer ’09 stood on the steps of McGraw Hall, addressing the crowd of 200 people after we had stood for 20 minutes in reflective silence. I was there with my mother at my side, acknowledging faces I recognized from all over campus — from first-year fraternity members to Hillel friends to radical gay rights activists — in the physical center of what has been my academic locus at Cornell. It seemed to be almost too suiting of an end to my time here on the Hill.

But there’s more to it. At the same time that we were standing outside, bonded together with one interpretation of what human dignity is, Chi Alpha was inside — bonding together over theirs. I could not disagree more with Chi Alpha’s stance on homosexuality’s immorality. However, what the demonstration did was reinforce the humanity of the “other” in the most respectful and conscientious way I could have imagined.

As you read this right now, I am probably at work in the Tatkon Center up on North Campus. My shift partner is Danielle D’Ambrosio ’10, the current president of Chi Alpha. Danielle has faced character assassinations this past week that, I think, are hard for most of us to imagine. As for me, I co-signed a resolution last week to halt SAFC funding for Chi Alpha pending investigation of how the organization upholds Cornell’s Code of Conduct. Danielle knows this. But as you read this right now, we are probably talking about Lord of the Rings or playing on Sporcle together (or … actually working, Laurie!)

Danielle and I stand, in some ways, diametrically opposed. But it is altogether reductive and simply untrue to say that this opposition fuels a lack of respect. Quite the opposite. Or to borrow another term from Indian traditions apart from this column’s eponymous “karma,” perhaps the best parts of me acknowledge, respect and honor the best parts of her — known as “namaste.”

The concept of namaste is, in short, what I will take away from Cornell. What else is a university if not a place to discover one’s best self and learn to respect the humanity in others — even when parts of those selves might really, truly clash? The word “university,” after all, comes for the Latin unum, “one,” + verto, “to turn,” = “turned into one.” The university, then, is a place of fluidity — not one of an innate “one-ness,” but rather a space for different parts to somehow become whole.

I am ineffably thankful to have spent the past four years at a university that is a definitive microcosm of the country and the world at large. The struggles that different communities go through here are as real as it gets. The fight for fair wages for university employees; for recognition of a transgender identity; for minority communities to receive administrative support: Cornell is not a run-through of these struggles for the “real world.” This is the real world.

But the benefit of Cornell as a stage for these struggles, to me at least, is that we find ourselves quite frequently (if accidentally) face-to-face with those that we have demonized or written off: at social events, in lecture halls, as co-workers. Then we are faced with two choices: we can fall into the trap of self-fulfilling prophecy and categorize a person exactly as we think they should be, or we can look for nuances — for common ground. In Buddhist terms, we can search for that other person’s inner light.

Writing for The Sun puts one in a space that is difficult to navigate. On the one hand, I have tried to write about situations that relate directly to my own identity (particularly as a Jewish feminist), to not lay any claim on an identity outside of my own. On the other hand, I’ve tried to write in a way that could be commented on and thought-over by groups outside of that identity. In navigating these two goals, I’ve searched for a space between egocentrism and over-generalization. Surely I’ve failed at times, and readers have been quick to point those times out. My first thank you goes to readers who have criticized me throughout this journey. Sometimes these criticisms have caused me to think in new and different ways; sometimes they have reaffirmed the direction I was initially heading in. For either of these results, I thank you.

I also want to particularly thank those who live and breathe the concept of namaste. To those who wrote angry letters to the editor (or emails to me, or comments on the website) about a particular column, and still shared a beer with me that night or kept in touch while they worked abroad or came up to introduce themselves in person.

One important lesson that the demonstration outside McGraw last week highlighted for me was the power of silence. I have always considered words to be my weapon, so seeing the strength of quietness was both jarring and empowering for me. In a strange way, it made me feel more OK with leaving Cornell. I don’t think I’ll be strictly silent about Cornell affairs in the netherworld of alumna life, but it also made me feel more at peace leaving here with so many unfinished projects and dreams.

Before I retreat into that nebulous silence, though, I must thank Olivia, David and Sammy, editors extraordinaire. Each one of you has added so much. Eternal homage to Leah, Alex and Amy, exacting critics and friends alike. Mom, Dad and Papa — always. Prof. Ross Brann, advisor and perspective-giver. And S, partner to the max, for always being proud, even when you disagree. I can’t wait to teach with you and to learn from you.

Namaste to all.