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Marco A. Torres '17 is a philosophy concentrator in Pforzheimer House. He writes almost as much as he reads.
In middle school I had a free period during my second hour, and so I applied to become a library assistant.
Chances are if you’re reading The Harvard Crimson, you’ve never heard of Peace Love Unity Respect. The acronym is a silly combination of sounds—a feline’s pleasure with an extra letter snuck in—and the cliché it stands for wouldn't last a minute in college classrooms. But since the ’90s, PLUR’s been a credo and a life philosophy for rave subculture. This summer it became my personal mantra. This fall I’ve decided it was Friedrich Nietzsche and Martin Heidegger’s as well.
Colton A. Valentine '16 is a literature concentrator in Lowell House. He finds power poses and bikram yoga the best ways to combat nihilism.
Professor Alex Keyssar and author Darryl Pinckney discussed disenfranchisement, the legacy of the Voting Rights Act, and the state of voting rights in the United States Monday afternoon.
There are only a few things, less than I imagined there would be, from my pre-college years that remain present in my thoughts. I have lost interest in the chaos of my city, Istanbul, in the “mosaic” of its culture, in the nebulous (substitute: sketchy) politics of my country. Only a few characters from my past follow me around Harvard Yard as I pace from the two opposite edges (and intellectual spheres) of the campus, from Northwest Labs to Emerson Hall.
As she tries to wrap her lips around the hard consonants of the English language, my grandmother fumbles with my small Nike garments. Turning them over and over, she attempts to enunciate the lone word in her English lexicon without much success.
Maya M. Park is a junior history concentrator in Dunster House. She loves chunky scarves and books, but has recently lost a pair of each.
One thing I have gotten better at over the past few years is letting go: of calculus, of dance classes in which you get called out for wearing anything other than your leotard and tights, of the size zero jeans that I outgrew in 8th grade and somehow managed to fit into again in 11th grade, of drinking coffee exclusively on Fridays. In a word: discipline.
Virginia R. Marshall '15 is an English concentrator in Dunster House.
My most recent haircut was in New York City. I went in by myself and ducked into the basement of the huge Astor Place Hairstylist like I was trying to lose a tail.
“Annenberg’s food today is just so awful!” countless people told me time and time again last year as we, the 1,600 Harvard freshmen, ate together in one gigantic dining hall.
He opened the door to reveal a tiny room cluttered with ski waxing benches, oversized duffels, rainbow clusters of racing skis, and scattered posters of Olympic skiers peeling off the stark white walls. I could tell right away that this wasn’t the latest in ski technology: this was a home.