When Cornell Dining recently revamped its uniform policy, mandating that employees in the ever-so-hip(ster) Green Dragon wear hats, student-employees started to complain. Hats?! Really? Clearly appalled by this fascist proclamation, our team of crack reporters has consulted with a slew of fashion experts — from Nylon to latfh.com to Tim Gunn — in order to develop “alternative” options that will please these individually-minded students. So, without further ado, here is the list of suggestions ...

To the Editor:

Re: “Enlightened, At Least From My Perspective,” Opinion, Nov. 4

Zach Murray’s ’10 statement at the program house panel, “white students don’t have to think about diversity,” was expressed as a result of what I deem a growing frustration that he, I and many other students of color on this campus feel because of the inability or lack of effort on the part of many — not all — of the majority white community at empathizing with the minority experience.

Health care is big money. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics says that health care represents America’s largest industry, providing roughly 14 million jobs. The Bureau goes on to mention that seven of the 20 fastest growing occupations are health related. Here at Cornell, medical research is a huge deal, producing shiny new buildings like Weill Hall, and attracting top professors from around the country. And our top students have always been lured towards medicine as an attractive, stable, intellectually stimulating career option.

But question: Jobs and investments aside, is this approach to medicine effective? Does it produce a healthy, productive society in the most efficient way possible?

[Editor’s Note: This column is the second installment of a two part series, the first half of which appeared in yesterday’s Sun.]

To the Editor:

Re: “It’s Not Just Paper Clips They’re Cutting Back On,” Opinion, Oct. 15

In yesterday’s editorial, you asked whether recommendations from Bain & Company would have consequences for our core mission, asserting that “it is important that the academic core of Cornell remain untouched by non-academic consultants,” and if our new procurement initiative will affect the readings faculty assign, the publications the library purchases or the equipment used in classes.

As project manager for our engagement with Bain, I have spent the past four months working with colleagues from Cornell and Bain to ensure that our project stays on the right side of the line between academics and non-academics.

My family is liberal. When I say liberal, I don’t mean they jumped on the Obama bandwagon in ’08. I mean really, really freakin’ liberal.

The expectation to have successful time management during college is truly a remarkable thing.

For some reason, people expect you to be able to take on a ridiculous amount of things and be able to pull it all off. A challenging course load, extracurricular activities that demand at least five times the time they would have taken you in high school, paying your bills, doing your laundry (and the dishes!), doing homework, keeping fit, eating healthy, having a job (or five), having a relationship, and not going nuts.

Well, people really do not require you to not go nuts. That’s just a personal preference.

In light of Senator Ted Kennedy’s passing last week — the loss of the patriarch of America’s “royal” family — I’ve been thinking about legacy and its role in present day America, as well as within the country’s university system.

Though Ted Kennedy inarguably had a profound impact on American politics during his 46-year reign in the Senate, the degree to which his success was “deserved” so-to-say is debatable. While he may have been the beacon of modern American liberalism, championing equality and a better life for the underprivileged, he was hardly a man of pristine moral stature.

I hated beer, my jeans were too loose and I was scared of dancing in public. It’s hard to remember much else from four years ago because so much in my life has changed (e.g., I would now kill to be able to fit into those jeans). I arrived at Cornell with the self-image of a true high school nerd. I had been to band camp, five consecutive math fairs and every midnight Star Wars premier. Left to my own devices, I probably would have spent my freshman year hiding in my dorm room with my stuffed animals, leaving only for classes and my a cappella group’s rehearsals. Thankfully, two things saved me from this disturbing fate: a preference for really geeky guys shocked by the prospect of a girl noticing them let alone hooking up with them, and my incredible roommate.