34th Street Magazine's "Toast" is a semi-weekly newsletter with the latest on Penn's campus culture and arts scene. Delivered Monday-Wednesday-Friday.
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It’s a scene right out of a classic college film or a rose-tinted admissions propaganda leaflet — a group of college students lazing around a dorm room or lounge, late at night, arguing about politics, philosophy and the meaning of life. It probably figured, to some extent, in your high school visions of what Ivy League life would be like. I know it did in mine.
At the end of this past school year, my mom and I were talking about the ups and downs of my college experience when she asked, “Are you proud of the person you’ve become?” Although taken by surprise, my first instinct was to say yes. After all, I had finished two years of college, lived across the country from my family, survived several East Coast winters, taken stimulating courses with incredible professors and learned from and was challenged by the students around me.
I assumed Trump would understand the national electorate. I assumed he would adjust his strategy and pivot to the general election. I might have been wrong.
This week’s issue of The Nation featured two cover articles. “Why this Socialist Feminist is for Hillary,” by Suzanna Danuta Walters and “Why this Socialist Feminist is not Voting for Hillary,” by Liza Featherstone.
With Penn recently considering divestment from fossil fuels, yet another college now questions the propriety of investing its endowments based on ethical inclinations.
It would be pointless for me to write a column arguing that the United States should lower the national minimum drinking age to 18 for two reasons.
First, it would be pointless because this is Penn, and the proposal would likely be so uncontroversial among whatever readership I have that it would verge on being a waste of time.
Protests are symbolic at their core. They signal a dissatisfaction with the greater system (whether it be white supremacist, patriarchal, imperialist) manifesting beneath the surface of an otherwise functional society. Nowadays, they signal change, but they don’t necessarily create it.
The contemporary tropes of International Baccalaureate scores and Radian apartments, of Western-tinted accents and Castle rushees, point to some kind of unspoken acceptance of the fact that nowadays, international Penn students just tend to be wealthier.
Currently my body is ink-free, but I soon plan on changing that. I want a tattoo and have promised three different friends that I would get a tattoo with them in the next few months. Statistically, at least one of them won’t chicken out, so it’s very likely that within the next few months my ink virginity will be taken from me.
Donald Trump is not stupid. Penn students frequently dismiss him because he says stupid things, but we shouldn’t underestimate the GOP frontrunner.
As Trump recently told a raucous crowd in South Carolina, “We have to be smart.
The practice of reflecting upon failings of the prior year at the start of a new one seems to me both honest and educational, particularly as someone whose somewhat inherently deceptive role is to publicly assert each week that I have a good answer to a significant problem or question.
I’m not someone who regularly writes down New Year’s Resolutions, mainly because they often remain consistent across the years: do well in school, go for a decent amount of runs every week, keep in touch with friends and family, journal more.
The words “billion” and “million” may rhyme, but they’re very different values. Consider the following: if you started out with a billion dollars the day Christ was born, and spent $1,000 every day since, you’d still have $264 million left today.
It’s easy to say that GPA shouldn’t define who we are as individuals and that it doesn’t have the greatest effect on our future, but, to a certain degree, the grades on our transcripts matter, whether we like it or not.
Recently, at the recommendation of a friend, I read author Rebecca Solnit’s essay “Men Explain Things to Me.” In the essay, Solnit tells a series of personal stories wherein various men condescendingly “correct” her about topics in which her expertise far exceeds their own.
Last week, I enjoyed a Thanksgiving meal with my family. Every year, I find myself dissecting what exactly it is I’m supposed to be celebrating on this holiday.