That was the first time of many times someone thought something was wrong with me, and the experience was more physical than mental. My face burned, which was shame. My stomach felt heavy, which was worry. And then my heart tightened, which was it preparing its defenses for the next time.
“The 1 Bus takes you straight there, but I really have a love-hate relationship with it,” Girma says, laughing. “Every trip is a journey.”
There is only one other customer in the store, who seems to be waiting for an Amazon staff member to appear behind the counter. He turns, we make eye contact, and he looks back at his phone. Neither of us went to an Amazon pick-up location to interact with other people.
If you look down past your phone, you’ll see the sidewalk bricks play a game of reverse Whack-a-Mole, rising unevenly out of the ground to fight back against your steps. Even if you survive the cars and the middle fingers and the tourists and that tenth Lumineers song, they still seem to say, screw you. Your foot strikes a particularly raised brick. You stumble. You look around but shake it off.
Our cover stories do more than shed light on pressing issues at Harvard. They can also help you scheme cuties.
We don’t have to share our most personal space, our most personal lives, with someone else. Oftentimes, though, I want to.
Sheehan D. Scarborough '07 aims to make the Office of BLGTQ Student Life more intersectional, “expanding the notion of what a BGLTQ student looks like, what they believe, how they operate in the world.”
Mendola carries around a case of eight harmonicas in different keys everywhere he goes, and eats his meals off of serving trays.
Mark P. Gross '17 can't decide if he likes Coke or Pepsi better.
Three weeks before the presidential election, the basement of Boylston Hall is filled with John Oliver’s voice, blaring, “Make Donald Drumpf Again.”
I boast no girlfriend or resume, but I do have a Panda.
SaNoah S. LaRocque ’19 is a traveler. Before arriving at Harvard last fall, she had attended 13 different schools and lived in towns, cities, and Native-American reservations across the United States.
That rush, that indescribable feeling—or rather, near-indescribable, since it’s the topic of this piece—only springs forth when I’m shopping for one thing: clothes.
We at “Ben and Andrew” are eternally grateful for the enormous outpouring of support we’ve received since we started writing our hit column, “Ben and Andrew,” last spring. Unfortunately, due to creative differences, “Ben and Andrew” has decided to dissolve. Luckily, we’re releasing a brand new column, “Andrew ‘n’ Ben”, that we think you’re going to love. We encourage you to follow along, and as always, to revisit your favorite “Ben and Andrews” from the archives.
My bedroom doubles as a shrine to Sam Smith. Guests enter, see the Sam Smith records hanging on the right-hand wall, and think, “Okay, cool.” Then they turn, see a massive framed poster of Sam Smith on the left-hand wall over my bed, and think, “This dude’s got issues.”