WILK | Faking it Until You Don’t Want to Make it Anymore

I was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society in seventh grade. Our mentors were eighth-graders seasoned by nothing more than hours of community service that most either forged or substituted for familial favors. Following their footsteps, we were to stand in the middle school gymnasium and be introduced to the families of spectators in the bleachers, ending with our career aspirations. I was freshly thirteen and my future plans were far from concrete.

HUA | The Butterfly Effect

Freshman year — pneumonia and a broken heart. Sophomore year — a broken ankle and financial stress. Junior year — bronchitis and misplaced trust. Senior year — finally finding my family at Cornell, only for these last moments with them to be snatched away. If you had asked me on my first night at Cornell whether I would ever consider writing for The Sun, I would have scoffed.

YANG | Weifeng the Freshman

I have always claimed, to those who know me, that my college experience here at Cornell has followed a healthy upward trend. My best semester was probably last semester. As a senior, I was truly living my time. I have found my community in Cornell Republicans and Cornell Political Union, among friends and mentors, often acting like an old man telling stories of the past (which, frankly, is just three years away). I found my voice here at The Sun, as the Chinese columnist annoyingly acting out his “Chineseness,” and daring to, for the first time, share my subversive thoughts about my beloved motherland with the public.

Murali Dreams of Good Food

This is my last article. I’ve been writing for the Dining Department for four years now, and, to be perfectly honest, I am not ready to say goodbye. But, that’s mostly because I have annoyingly discovered that I have multiple thoughts left to tell all of you about! So, I guess instead of multiple separate posts, you’ll have to deal with the abridged versions. Boba is not that good.

POORE | Not How I Planned to Say Goodbye

This Friday, my friends and I held a going away celebration for one of us who was leaving. He ended up having to leave campus earlier that day, so at night it was just us, celebrating alone. The party ended in the only way it ever could’ve: tears. We cried gracelessly on the floor, as much about the uncertainty of our futures as about the nostalgia of our pasts. This weekend has been filled with so many goodbyes.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR: Dear Cornell, From a Senior

To the Editor:

“We are a strong community and one in which we support each other.” This was the phrase that most caught my eye in the email sent on March 10 to the Cornell community regarding the disappointing changes coming about as a result of coronavirus. These changes are devastating to many of us, especially seniors. It struck me as tonally discordant for that phrase to slip out of an email that otherwise insensitively detailed the steps Cornell will be taking to wash its hands of any future outbreak without explaining much in terms of rationale. While I’m sure there is a rationale, I want to take a moment to highlight the confusions we have as a student body, the intense disappointment we had in learning this news and how important it is to consider, very carefully, what exactly future versions of these decisions will mean for us, especially seniors graduating in May. We have many questions, mostly concerning the thought process behind the decision.

LEEDS | Memories Made Over Meals

Over the past four years I’ve come to learn that food is personal. One person’s “yuck” is another person’s “yum.” One may love veggies while another may despise them. One may not understand how someone could live without meat while another can’t imagine consuming an animal product. One may love the food of their culture, while others might be reminded of a culture they’re trying to distance themselves from. Everyone has their story, but most of it has to do with food.

PINERO | Oh, the Places You’ll Go

The relationship between ends and beginnings is parasitic. For something to end, it must already exist. For something to begin, it must not yet be. Burrowed deep inside the ends of things dwells a promise of the new. That promise — of a beginning — must slowly consume the ending within which it is sheltered until it is material and its host is not.