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I’d always wanted an older sibling, preferably a brother: someone who’d probably beat me up but also teach me how to win my own fights, who’d fill me in on older kid secrets so I’d always be ahead of the game.
Delphine Rodrik '14 is a History and Literature and Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations concentrator in Cabot House. She is proud of her strong stomach, except for at Grand Elections.
Andrew A. White '14 is a Human Developmental and Regenerative Biology concentrator in Kirkland House.
Two weeks ago, to the amusement of seven of us at the time and many more since, I paid for my roommate to get a face tattoo.
Hey B.J., née Benjamin Joseph, Novak ’01. Guess what? I look just like you. Seriously, I look just fucking like you. Same hair (Br.). Same height (5’9”). Same muscle build (N/A).
They don’t have postcards in Bangladesh, or at least in Chittagong where Devon lives. So Devon made her own postcard to send to me. She smoothed newspapers written in Bengali script into the folds of a patterned pink paper, backed it on cardstock, and penned a message on the inside that bled through the pulp.
In a minute, she will whisk the skillet off the burner, move it over towards the pie pan sitting on counter, and coax the apples into the pan. She will do it all in one fluid motion. Afterwards, she will cover the apples with a round, yellow-tinted pie dough circle, slide the pan into the oven, and wait.
Harvard is represented in my head by a large Venn diagram. The two overlapping crimson circles are labeled “Before” and “After.” The first circle encompasses my freshman and sophomore years. The second contains my junior and senior years. They are separated by the year I was gone. Not many things fall in the overlap.
There is a house in an imaginary Newark, in a row of red brick buildings between the highway and the sun.