Towards the end of my first year of law school I, like most of my classmates, attended a meeting in preparation for the writing competition. The writing competition is used for the law journals at Cornell to select their associates for the next year. At this meeting all the journals gave a brief presentation and distributed a handout providing information on their journal; during the presentation for one of the journals, I noticed that when they formed they originally funded themselves with a bake sale. This struck me as an excellent idea, and I decided I wanted to start my own law journal, The Cornell Journal of Space Law, which I would fund by selling cookies shaped like rocket ships, the sun, etc. (if this idea failed it was suggested to me that I should solicit Richard Branson for funds). While I never followed through with this idea, I do actually remain very interested in space law as a field, and many law students still approach me to discuss or joke about space law.

Today, thousands of student activists from around the country are cheering loudly — and for good reason.

A nation-wide alliance, the United Students Against Sweatshops, drove a persistent group of protesters to fight for the rights of sweatshop laborers who had been stripped of their jobs at a Russell Athletic factory after workers tried to unionize.

White privilege. Despite my pale, freckled, Irish and Swedish skin (trust me, it doesn’t get much paler than this), it’s not something I really think about on a regular basis.

At least until I go home to Massachusetts. My aunt, whose skin is just as pale and freckled as mine, is a professor at Tufts, teaching classes such as “African American History since 1865” and “Class, Race and Gender in the History of U.S. Education.” She dedicated her education and career to learning about the events that have created white privilege (she acknowledges, ironically, that she occupies a position of privilege as a professor at a majority-white university).

So every time I come home, I am reminded — reprimanded, almost — of the white privilege that my life has been steeped in. My family not only acknowledges our white privilege, but constantly points it out to each other so that we do not take our opportunities for granted.

News broke last week that the U.S. government had moved to seize four U.S. mosques and a skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, which are owned by an Iranian Muslim non-profit organization. The Alavi Foundation, the non-profit organization in question, provides many extremely important services to the Shiite Muslim community in America. Because of this, the Alavi Foundation has a lot of influence in this community.

In recent weeks, evidence of the recession has surfaced in Collegetown. With the closing of Sinbad’s and Collegetown Candy and Nuts, upperclassmen walking to and from class are nearly guaranteed to pass a vacant storefront or two. It is worrisome to witness businesses shutting down in the area, but now may be a defining time for redevelopment of Collegetown’s commercial landscape.

My circuitous path to Cornell included two-year stops at the U.S. Naval Academy and the Island of Borneo, where I served as a Mormon missionary. My cocktail hour inquisitors often focus their questions on the discipline and adventure of that period in my life. They want to explore the differences between Cornell and life in uniform — military or priestly. What was basic training like? How about the guns? Did you meet a headhunter? (In order: awful, awesome and I think so, but Borneo is the same as America in at least one way … you don’t just ask a guy if he’s a killer.)

After a grueling and torturous year of starving at Cornell, all I wanted was to go home and eat my mother’s delicious cooking for an entire summer. I wanted to walk through the kitchen on a sunny afternoon and let the tantalizing aroma envelope my body and soul. My lips would begin to quiver as I bring the food closer to my mouth. My taste buds would tingle and a glistening tear would fall down my cheek as I slowly chewed, savoring every moment, every second, thanking God that I lived to experience this once more.

While many have hailed the passage of health care reform in the House (H.R. 3692), much anger remains after the passage of a last-minute amendment, the Stupak Amendment. Pushed for heavily by Catholic bishops, this amendment greatly restricts the use of federal funding for abortion.

While one obviously does not have to be Catholic or even religious to oppose abortion, Catholics, other Christians (including this Lutheran) and many other religious people were concerned that they may end up funding abortions with their taxes in flagrant contradiction of their religious beliefs.

The University’s response to last Monday’s stabbing incident raises concern about Cornell’s safety protocols and alert procedures. Cornell’s crime alert e-mail reported the incident as merely a robbery and was sent over two and a half hours after it happened, both downplaying the fact that a student was physically harmed and failing to alert the community about suspects who remained at large.

Questions persist surrounding the details of the situation, particularly about the degree of physical harm endured by the student. While The Sun reported the incident as a stabbing, the University has refused to acknowledge this wording, insisting that only a “small puncture wound” was endured.

As I went through the door of my apartment, the opening between the literal wall of books at the entrance to our house revealed a brand new bookcase my husband had just made. Eight feet long and three rows high, it fit perfectly between the piano and the smaller black bookcase right next to my desk. The house completely filled with sawdust, we happily set out to finally fight back what I have started referring to as “the book invasion.” And, to our surprise and relative dismay, it turns out we filled the entire thing.