Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of ' archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
9 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
Today I put on thigh-high boots and a slinky, dark blue sweater before I left my room. Calling it my “career-driven woman” outfit, based mostly on what I had seen in “The Devil Wears Prada,” I hoped it would inspire me to write this article before my deadline.
Last October, the University hosted its first ever iteration of the Hult Prize competition, an international startup challenge with a focus on solving pressing social issues. A group of four students entered the competition an hour before the deadline, simply because the competition needed another team. The team ended up doing so well that this year they will fly to Kenya to implement their plan.
On Saturday, October 20, nearly thirty refugees, alongside Princeton students, faculty and their families took a break from their jobs, studies, and otherwise busy lives to participate in the Office of Religious Life’s annual pumpkin carving event. Crouched on tarps on the Murray Dodge lawn in the cool afternoon air, participants immediately took to carving, painting, and decorating what soon became a beautiful and diverse array of pumpkins.
Returning to campus for Princeton fall as a sophomore, I’ve felt like a freshman again as I reacquaint myself with the Orange Bubble and the feelings only living here can rouse. I’ve had to relearn how to read books without getting distracted, how to find the spoons in various dining halls, how to feel lost, how to fail. For optimistic not-yet-but-soon-to-be-jaded first-years settling into their first semesters on campus, amid the excitement of new classes, parties, and friends and acceptance come inevitable first encounters with exclusivity and rejection.
For me, this spring break somehow manifested itself as an unexpected exploration of the concept of the “strong female character” through the centuries. This all began Saturday night with a family trip to see Swan Lake, one of the most popular ballets (written in the late 19th century) which I used to watch constantly on TV as a young girl (although I preferred the animated movie version, The Swan Princess, which came out in 1994 and attempts something more of a feminist spin). In this version, when the prince is initially asked why he wants to marry Odette, he says “because she’s beautiful” and then “what else is there” after the priest deems his response unsuitable, to Odette’s horror. She leaves him, only for them to reunite when he saves her from her fate as a swan. Perhaps this turn of events dampens the strength of Odette’s earlier choice. Still, the original ballet portrays Odette as having no choices as opposed to one; she falls in love with the prince, is held captive by the evil Von Rothbart, the prince must save her, and that is that. Her beauty and grace are her only attributes, although as a ballet those attributes take priority. Yet we can’t help but feel bad for her, almost as if she has failed to live up to her potential; we don’t get to know Odette as her own person because her actions serve merely to either entice the prince or show displeasure at her captivity. She is trapped in her role both within the story and as a female character in a classic fairy tale, which selects her as an object to win and as peripheral to the prince.
Pre-Super Bowl Thoughts: Friday, January 26
In my first article for The Street, “Lost,” I wrote about getting and feeling lost on an early autumn campus shrouded in mystery, its trees still holding onto their leaves, everything full of promise. Now, as winter approaches, everything becomes familiar, shrouded in memory instead. “In the beginning, I got lost all the time,” Lucy Zhang ’21 in Mathey said to me recently over lunch. “Now, I can’t get lost even if I try to.”
Darkness. Silence. Then a single beam of white light as the projector shines on the audience, turning us into film. We wait, seated in two rows on the stage, in anticipation of the actors entrance to the seating area. But first: horns, percussion, swelling music. The movie of us ends and the lights come on in the house of the theater, but the stage remains dark.
Coming to Princeton from Philadelphia, a city slicker like me should have been disappointed by the simplicity and isolation of campus. Surely the manicured lawns, empty streets, and not worrying about getting mugged when walking back to my dorm at 2 a.m. ought to have felt anticlimactic somehow. Instead, I was a rat in a maze, stumbling through identical-looking fields with large white tents and diagonal sidewalks, trying to decipher which arch was which, walking all the way down Washington Road past Powers Field looking for the Neuroscience building (twice). I even found myself lost in my own hall, wandering up and down flights of stairs and through identical passageways.