Today is the final day of print publication in 2020 for The Cornell Daily Sun. A departure from our normal schedule, we will publish regularly after Thanksgiving break online only. For the rest of the semester, the sturdy doors at 139 W State Street won’t see the normal influx of editors rushing in and out to make a paper, as our staff returns to their homes and bunkers down until the spring.
We adore the comfort and cadence of our print paper, and — not unlike the sunshine in Ithaca — the print edition of The Cornell Daily Sun will return in February.
In the meantime, we’ll continue our steady reporting at cornellsun.com; if you have comments, compliments, concerns or qualms, do reach out to [email protected] — we’d love to hear from you.
This has been one hell of a start to 2020. It has shown us how negligent we can be when it comes to taking care of each other, and it has shown us the extent to which we take care providers for granted. When I say care providers, I don’t just mean doctors and nurses; I mean the garbage collector, the Chick-fil-A cook, the woman stocking empty grocery store shelves and the 40 year employee showing up to work everyday and finding new ways of doing the same work. Re-imagining jobs that have been the same for decades is no easy feat. But people have done that invisible work so you don’t have to worry about getting your family sick when snacking on spicy chicken sandwiches for a special Friday dinner.
I have never felt as young as I did last week, at 21, sitting behind my baba in a hospital room as a nurse explained some pre- and post-op procedures that he’d have to undergo. Baba kept repeating the same lines he had been for the past few days: I don’t have high blood pressure, I don’t have diabetes or high cholesterol, I exercise, I eat well. Why is this happening to me? Everything the nurse said that day came with sporadic yet pregnant glances in my direction. Baba was genetically predisposed for these heart problems, so chances are I’ve inherited them too, just as I did his big eyes and perpetual nervousness.
I really don’t wanna talk about it, and I shouldn’t even really, so I’m barely going to. The last few weeks have been surprising, disorienting and mainly just sad for anybody who has ever admired Kanye West as a musician, artist, public figure and person who doesn’t befriend alt-right figures and espouse their disgusting revisionist histories. The music he has released during this time — while it, as usual, sounds pretty good — has either been a platform for his new, semi-incoherent ideology (“Ye vs. the People”), or a troll so broad that it begs the question of whether he’s taking any of this shit even remotely seriously (“Lift Yourself”). In the end, it doesn’t really matter all that much, at least to me, whether he actually believes what he’s been saying, or whether he just believes that he is continuing a long career of reactive, disruptive speech regardless of its content, or whether it’s all just a huge joke at the expense of everybody except for Donald Trump, Candace Owens and people who believe that 400 years of slavery were a choice.
I have been looking forward to having a goodbye column since before I even had a column. My friends are probably tired of hearing about my parting 5,000-word magnum opus that I’ve had in the works since freshman year.
But that’s just how I think.
I began looking forward to my high school reunion before I even graduated. My last year at summer camp, I based my actions on whether I thought they would create a lasting memory. In the words of John Dorian, I’m a “sensi.” I’m an emoter, if you will.
But that’s all been hard for me recently. I’m having trouble not being bitter.