There’s a moment in David Bowie’s 1972 Top of the Pop performance of his hit song “Starman” in which it seemed the entire Isle of England froze. Bowie, dressed in a skinsuit mishmashed with beaming colors and buoyed by a shock of red hair, is in the midst of an upswing. For a piece of innovative musical composition that promised deliverance, “Starman” begins ominously on the 11th chord, before moving up an octave to prepare for the chorus: “There’s a Starman Waiting in the Sky; He’d like to come and meet us.”
In this upswing, surrounded by hipsters, instrumentalists and college students, Bowie’s lead guitarist Mick Ronson shyly approaches to sing with him; instead, in one sweeping gesture, Bowie embraces him for the chorus. They sing together; a country implodes in shock. Nowadays, this doesn’t seem much.
It took six years and a group of the world’s most brilliant scientists to develop a nuke that would bring the world to a halt. As it is, it only took April Ryan five words to have the same effect. Let’s set it up. The day of April Ryan’s question had been rather a tumultuous for the president. The day before, he had been reported as to calling Haiti and El Salvador “shithole countries,” which was rather unfortunate for his now exhausted public relations team, outrageous to just about anyone else outside the GOP, and rather hilarious to the rapidly growing sadist population in the country. How could he say that?
A few months ago in the spring, I had a sit-down with a charming professor about a homework problem I was stuck on, and while the chat was productive, it soon devolved into tiptoeing around a racial issue that, frankly, has worn a bit thin on me. When I told her I was Chinese, she inevitably started talked about her experience traveling abroad in mainland China, and while her eyes glowed when she talked about the sights she saw, her mouth began to twitch uncomfortably when she descended from the sights to the people. And word for word, before she began, I knew what she was going to say. It isn’t a secret in the Chinese American community that there is a certain disdain for their peers from abroad. Whether it’s true or not, nationals are regarded as louder, less behaved and generally less suited for assimilation in America.
If you haven’t noticed yet, some companies have already fired up their recruiting engines for next summer’s internships. Along the way, students, especially current sophomores, have scrambled to attend recruiting events, network and hopefully be asked to interview for a coveted position for next summer. Interviewing for an internship can be incredibly stressful for students, especially when they have to balance it with schoolwork, extracurriculars and a social life. For instance, one of my friends dropped a class because it was interfering with her networking session, and as a fellow business student, I was sympathetic. A lot of business students feel pressured to prioritize to put interviews which seems incredibly backwards.
Back when I was in high school, I was friends someone who was incredibly smart, gifted and a good friend. He managed to graduate at the top of of our class, and was a ferociously talented pianist. In all honesty, I thought he would get into every college he applied too. The problem was, it didn’t matter what I thought. When college decisions came out, he didn’t get into Harvard.
I always thought the greatest superpower anyone could wish for was the ability to speak the right words at the right time. Its potential would be substantial. Businessmen could use it to swing negotiations; socialites could use it attract the attention of others; politicians could use it to push their agenda across. And I? Well, I could use it to get me and my friends to calm down a bit.
My friend and I are half-heartedly considering starting a new club at Cornell. One matter we stumbled upon was how selective we wanted the club to be. Personally, I wanted it to be open to anyone, so we could attract the most students. She wanted it to be capped at a certain amount, so we could maximize our time with each member. Who was right?
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.
When it comes to our education timeline, we all like to think linearly and in absolute terms. We do well in high school, go to a good college, get a job or go to graduate school. We churn through our daily homework and prep for our tests; we network and interview, conscious of putting out best foot forward to secure our career interest. The slightest derailment leads to waves of anxiety — being left behind is a fear shared amongst students here. College students don’t do well when left in uncertainty. For most Cornell undergraduates, educational purgatory can be a maddeningly stressful experience.
When I was in high school, I had two friends who were both male, and maybe more importantly, Asian. We initially met each other at the behest of our parents, who wanted us to form a robot design team and compete in tournaments. That initial plan failed, but like all Asian males, we reveled in the parental disappointment and became friends anyways. Our distinctions made us tenuous friends. One, named Noah, was always the more social of the group.