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(05/10/15 5:16pm)
At the final Senior Pub Night, it became painfully clear that I do not know a large portion of the senior class and this seemed to be the consensus among many people I spoke with that night. Despite sharing four years on the same 500 acres — the same study spaces and dining spaces and workout spaces and social spaces — the senior class, as a whole, remains largely unfamiliar. The subset of the senior class that pushed their way towards the free beer and quickly disappearing French fries was full of — for lack of a better word — strangers.
(02/18/15 7:10pm)
At the start of this academic year, I wrote a column advising freshmen to give themselves more than a couple months to decide how they felt about Princeton and the college experience. I told them how I had started my Princeton career as an awfully unhappy freshman but have since fallen in love with this university. In that column I told my story in the hope that freshmen might save themselves the same self-doubt and anxiety that plagued my first semester of Princeton.
(10/16/14 6:48pm)
Google has its ball pits and nap pods, but Apple and Facebook may have taken the lead when it comes to perks — if you’re a woman, that is. On Tuesday, NBC News reported that the two companies now offer coverage for their female employees to have their eggs frozen. The move seems a direct response to the heavily debated work-life balance concerns of professional women. With that balance proving to be more of a doomed juggling act for women who are equally devoted to career and family within today’s inflexible work culture, the new benefit could be a welcome alternative to these concurrent pressures. Young women will now have the opportunity to postpone pregnancy in order to focus exclusively on establishing their careers without the increased risk of infertility later on— a measure that was certainly out of reach for some, if not most, as the procedure can cost upwards of $10,000, according to NBC News.
(10/02/14 5:00pm)
If I could sit my freshman self down at the dawn of my Princeton career, I’d have quite a few things to say. Don’t take that 9 a.m. class. Get your quantitative reasoning requirement done early. Try out for everything. Attend every lecture. Go pick up your favorite sweater from the laundry room right now because it will get stolen. However, all of these little things would only come after I told her the one thing I truly wish someone had said to me. I would take poor, frightened me by the shoulders and say, “Give college six months before you decide how you feel.”
(09/18/14 5:45pm)
Watching my little brother pack his belongings into the car before his freshman year of college as I did the same on the cusp of my senior year, I felt old. That first day at Princeton seemed like whole lifetimes ago. In the years between then and now, my perception of myself and the world, and my place in that world, had changed tremendously and constantly. And now, here I was, the pseudo-responsible adult, telling my brother to be smart and safe, and to make good decisions — the same hollow mantra I’d only half-heard through the haze of my excitement three years earlier. When he texted me that weekend with a simple and yet all encompassing, “I love college,” I realized that, although we both loved our respective universities, my love was tinged with a premature nostalgia, a love of something that already seemed past. I felt old.
(04/21/14 5:44pm)
Millennials have been called the "me generation," and if you were to search “selfie” on any form of social media, the claim seems well-founded. We’re a generation obsessed with looking good and letting people know that we look good. Got a new haircut? Selfie. Wearing a new shade of lipstick? Selfie. Dressed up for a formal? Selfie.
(04/03/14 5:43pm)
At Princeton, it is widely professed and strongly emphasized that it is all right to be undecided during your first two years of study. As a freshman and then sophomore with conflicting passions and divergent skills that did not seem to fit neatly into any singular area, I took this mantra to heart. Thus explains my brief love affair with American politics and a momentary brush with psychology. I tried audio journalism with the vague notion that my future could very well include a job at NPR and found it most certainly did not. I entered several classes with the optimistic conviction that this would be the semester I found the field or the topic that would propel me in the direction of some one true passion I had yet to recognize.
(02/27/14 6:46pm)
Despite the stereotype afforded to English majors, I am not terrible at math. I cannot say I enjoy the subject nor that its more complicated aspects come naturally, but I am certainly capable of basic understanding and usage. I am, though, afraid of math — at least as it is defined within the Princeton community. The fast-paced, competitive nature of math courses, many of which are requirements for engineers and others with quantitative leanings, paired with the tyrannical hand of grade deflation has deterred me from taking these courses. Nonetheless, this semester proved the best time to take my quantitative reasoning distribution requirement and thus explains my current enrollment in the poorly named Math Alive.
(02/13/14 6:58pm)
In imagining what can only be the dramatic origins of a certain Princeton mantra, I like to think that one day a Princetonian on the cusp of graduation looked up at Blair Arch, its stones basked in a special sort of afternoon sun, and in a fit of nostalgia placed his hand on the shoulder of a passing freshman and warned, “You only get eight semesters here.” The freshman then thought of the very short eight semesters ahead of him and was struck with unease. He repeated the words, now with the cadence of a proverb, to those around him: “You only get eight semesters here.” And the phrase was picked up and passed on and was swept up into the collective consciousness of the Princeton student so that however many years later as I, a restless sophomore, filled out my application to study abroad the following fall it made me wonder if I was making a terrible mistake.
(12/08/11 11:00pm)
In late October I was averaging what I thought to be an impressive four hellos on my daily mid-morning walk from my dorm room to Italian class. They weren’t people I knew exactly, for “know” is a strong word to describe our poorly defined relationships. They were other freshmen that I’d met in passing, friends of friends or people who happened to have the same dining schedule as my own. In those early months of school, there was the idealistic possibility that each fleeting conversation of “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” “What’s your major?” could yield some blissful friendship or, at the very least, another lonely soul to acknowledge your presence as you trudged from one class to the next.
(11/09/11 11:00pm)
If you happened upon this article as your roommate used the cover of the Prince to mop up the puddles of her spilled milk from the dining hall table or you pulled it off the desk of the kind woman scanning your prox as you returned for your third ice cream, then I assume that at one time you received an email that flaunted a hearty “Congratulations! You have been accepted to Princeton University.” In an uplifting commencement address soon after, you were told that you were the best of the best, the cream of the crop, in the top 5 percent of everyone you’ve ever met in your entire life. So let me reiterate, congratulations! If the email you received on some spring afternoon however long ago didn’t bear these words and you were forced to attend some less reputable university, the likes of Harvard or Yale, my sincerest condolences for coming across this article. Clearly you get our paper with the sole intention of lining the crate of your poorly trained Labrador while muttering words like “pretentious” and “Brooks Brothers” or some unprintable vulgarity.