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Every year, when Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, rolls around, I find myself staring at a list of people I’ve offended. It takes me hours to put it together; I go through my phone contacts, Facebook, and even class rosters to mark everyone I’ve annoyed, hurt, or disappointed. The process has become automatic at this point, but it’s nonetheless unpleasant. I don’t enjoy being reminded of all the times I’ve screwed up.
I’ve only recently come to realize that there really isn’t anything wrong with me just because I don’t enjoy going out. It’s just not who I am. And after two years, I’m okay with that — you should be, too.
But more than anything, my professor’s ability to find beauty on that seemingly forsaken day left me speechless. I was prepared to let the afternoon go to waste, just as I was ready to declare my day earlier this week a total failure. But my beloved professor wasn’t. Instead of seeing the obvious ugliness that sometimes surrounds us, she chose, instead, to see something beautiful. She saw blossoms in the midst of a snowstorm.
Making greetings a part of Princeton’s personality would encourage interaction between individuals who don’t normally feel as if they have anything to say to one another simply because they’ve never tried.
I can only imagine how many meaningful relationships I’ve missed out on because of my fixation on shoes, instead of the story behind them.
Few will announce their depression to an audience because of the shame associated with any kind of special treatment. That doesn’t mean, however, that such individuals don’t seek empathy and compassion.
When I look at myself on a good day, I don’t search for faults. I see an attractive, funny, smart young woman who enjoys life. But when I look at whatever goes wrong in my life, I see only faults. I see an ugly, stupid failure who ruins everything she touches — even when that’s just not true.
I only learned what “Netflix and chill” meant after I once suggested to a guy I liked that we do so sometime. He quickly texted me back to say that he was shocked by my honesty. “You’re usually pretty shy,” he said. “Are you sure?” I couldn’t understand why he was so hesitant. “What do you mean?” I responded. “I’m only inviting you to watch a movie.”
We’ve all been that rejected person — and it doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel good to know that someone doesn’t want you in their “group” without ever getting to know you. So examine your actions over the next few weeks and ask yourself if you’re rejecting people because it’s easier to do so, or if you truly believe that you wouldn’t be compatible.
It’s normal to feel hurt by rejection, and accepting and learning from it is far easier said than done.
Everyone has to create their own work-social life balance and must, then, make their own decisions about how social integration and interaction plays a role in their life. But they must also remember that friendship, if fostered and nurtured, will help keep them emotionally and physically healthy for years to come.
I used to cry for hours because I said I didn’t know how to make friends. “That’s silly,” my friends would scoff. “You’ve made plenty of friends before.” “That’s true,” I agreed. “But that was before people really started to drink.”
On a campus like Princeton's, where we are all so concerned with grades, internships, and jobs, friendships are yet another source of stress. Who to talk to? How to talk to them? At what event? These questions ran through my mind all of last year. Every time I sat at a meal table with upperclassmen, I silently hoped that they would talk to me. They usually didn’t — they probably didn’t even think to do so — but had they asked me how I was or what I wanted to major in or even what my name was, I wouldn’t have felt that I was sitting at a table for one, full of other people.
than anything, it was my interactions with the watermelon sellers that taught
me about myself.
Fifteen minutes isn’t a lot. But, if every week, three of your friends are fifteen minutes late to dinner dates, one of your professors wanders in fifteen minutes late to class, and your teammate is consistently fifteen minutes late to practice, you’ve lost 165 minutes of your time.
I have no interest in censoring Breaking the Silence; it has every right to speak to students about its views. But students must question the validity of what they hear.
I’ll admit that I take part in my fair share of “man bashing.” Any evening with my girlfriends used to involve talking about how much we “hate men,” how terrible our dating experiences have been, and how foolish our exes were.
“It’s late,” I say. “I try to be in bed by midnight.”“Of course, you little humanities major, you,” she chuckles patronizingly. “If you can go to bed this early, you clearly don’t have a lot of work to do.”
I’m afraid to say it out loud sometimes because it’s become a bad word of late. I believe in Israel’s right to exist and its necessity. I put great faith in the Jewish right to self-determination and have a deep love for the State of Israel. This makes me a Zionist.
A year or two ago, P!nk’s song “Perfect” was blasting on radios across the country. Her powerful refrain implored us “[not to] ever, ever feel like you are less than, less than perfect.” People — myself included — drank in her lyrics as a powerful message of self-affirmation and acceptance. P!nk meant well when she asked us to remember that we are perfect just the way we are, but she neglected to mention that we are humans — and thus, inherently flawed.