As a young woman, it feels as though you have to walk the fine line between being “basic,” or “hipster.” Both sides are heavily criticized — “basic” girls for being too mainstream and like everyone else, and “hipster” girls for being too weird or different. You really can’t win.
Last week, I was chatting with some friends about how I prefer not to celebrate Valentine’s Day. A few of my friends agreed with me that it’s become more about spending money and showing off and less about love, but most of my friends seemed shocked that I wasn’t going to do anything for my significant other on Friday. It isn’t just with my friends, but with my family, too. My grandparents send me annual Valentine’s Day cards. Even my mother said to me on a call, “Maybe you should think about doing something this year.” But why? Let’s start off with the obvious: Valentine’s Day is no longer wholly about love. Instead, it has turned into one of the most capitalistic, money-grubbing holidays of the year, outdone only by Black Friday, Christmas and (to some extent) Halloween. When one of the best things about a holiday is the sales during or after it, you’re not really celebrating the actual idea behind it.
I have to wonder if the writers of “The Office” knew what they were doing when they wrote their series finale. The easy answer here is that they obviously did; Google “the office finale” and you’ll find think piece after think piece about how perfectly NBC’s hit sitcom concluded. My actual question lies within a specific quote. Did the writing team know that “I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them” would wind up plaguing yearbooks and Instagram captions for (probably) decades to come? It’s a nice quote, and as someone whose self-admitted tragic flaw is sentimentality, I can see why fans of “The Office” cling to it like a treasured family heirloom.
I live in a house with three other oldest daughters, and it shows. Our house is always clean. We’ve mastered the art of domestic coziness, provide our younger friends a candlelit respite from their dorms and if someone is making a breakfast more elaborate than cereal or toast, they always cook for everyone. Rarely is one of us upset for more than 20 minutes before the others notice and sit them down to talk about their feelings or offer to bake them cookies. We are all currently, or have previously been, leaders of student organizations. Our families like to communicate their issues with each other through us. We are all stressed.
As I scrolled through my Twitter timeline last week, I noticed a lot of tweets about Billie Eilish, something not out of the ordinary for the past few months. After releasing her debut album in March 2019, Eilish quickly rose to fame. The hot topic trending on Twitter this time? Her first time at the Grammys. At the 62nd Grammy Awards on Jan. 26, Eilish was the star of the night, winning five of the six awards for which she was nominated. She became the youngest person to ever win Album of the Year and the second person (and first woman) to ever win the Big Four: Album of the Year, Song of the Year, Record of the Year and Best New Artist.
It was a night like any other. I had just finished washing my face and could still taste the mintiness of my toothpaste. I laid my head on my pillows and opened up my new favorite app — TikTok. Watching the short, comedic videos became a part of my nightly routine when I downloaded the app last semester. I get a sense of peace from ending my days with a lighthearted laugh. But, as I scrolled through the endless loop of videos on this particular night, I noticed a new trend that didn’t make me laugh. I watched TikTok after TikTok of teenagers sitting silently in their bedrooms while the song Ribs by Lorde played in the background.
In early December two years ago, I was waiting to hear back from the Office of Student Ethics and Conflict Resolution (OESCR) about the results of my sexual assault investigation. I reported an incident from my sophomore year. I didn’t know if reporting was the right thing to do, because while the incident met one of the standard definitions of sexual assault (“unwanted sexual” contact), it wasn’t rape. It took me awhile to realize maybe I had been assaulted, and much longer to stop hanging out with the guy I reported. But my friends and Title IX office employees assured me the incident was worth reporting, and I did. The guy was found “not responsible” of violating the Student Code of Conduct, meaning a panel of OESCR judges believed what happened was consensual.
Well, folks, we’re in the homestretch. Two more weeks until we can kiss this semester goodbye and ride off into the sunset toward holiday cheer and a little less homework. Our staff has been reflecting on the good, the bad and the ugly of this past semester, setting our sights on what we hope to improve come January. We’re drafting our New Year’s resolution, if you will. Going forward, we at The Miami Student hope to see the relationship between our reporters and Miami’s administration improve in hopes to increase transparency on our campus. But achieving this resolution starts with setting some common ground and erasing the idea that our staff is pushing an anti-administration agenda.
“You need to do some meditation and realize you have to let people care for you,” one of my housemates texted me recently. I dismissed it. See, I thought I had checked off personal growth on my to-do list months ago.
It’s almost here. In a week, I’ll say goodbye to some of the greatest friends I’ll ever know. I won’t be a student at Miami University anymore. But it hasn’t hit me yet. I really figured I’d be smacked upside the head with a wave of extreme sadness and nostalgic longing by now. But nope, nothing.
This column is pulled from a conversation with two of our reporters who discussed their experiences growing up as gay men. Tim Carlin: So, where do you want to start with this? David Kwiatkowski: I think we should start where you said. Tim: Okay, do you want to go first? David: … No. Tim: Okay, so I came out in waves. I first came out to my friends when I was in sixth grade. By the time I got to high school, everyone just kind of knew. Throughout high school, it just became more known. I never hid it from anyone.
At the beginning of each new school year, I buy folders for a dollar, select reasonably-priced pens and pencils and purchase notebooks while they’re on sale. I hardly pay attention while stuffing these items into my backpack; whether or not they rip or tear is their own business. Each year, I also allow myself one beautiful purchase, and this year’s was a Kate Spade agenda.
It is said that there are three topics of conversation people should always avoid discussing: money, religion and, perhaps the most controversial of all, politics. And yet, those topics always seem to come up. With Thanksgiving fast approaching and Election Day fresh on the minds of Americans, many families dread the political discussions and fights with extended family that come with the holidays. I have seen my friends, extended family, teachers and even strangers openly debate each other on the state of the country. I hold no doubts about the potential negative strains political disagreement can have on a relationship. I see this strain between two of the most influential people in my life — my parents.
Throughout history (alternatively, since 1998), I’ve had a long-running record of moments where I’ve made fun of people who read too much into astrology. It’s really easy to quip about, so I often do — I even wrote a shambly, one-act play with a joke character dedicated to garnering laughs about those who turn to the constellations for guidance. But then something funny happened. I downloaded Co–Star onto my phone over the summer, and I give it validity more often than I’d like to admit. Am I now the person searching for guidance down any avenue possible? It’s possible.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve struggled to accept my body. I remember being no older than 11 and begging my mom not to make me go into the Macy’s dressing room. I hated playing with Barbies. I envied the girls who could fit into Abercrombie and Fitch and Lululemon. I went to an affluent private school in a conservative area, one that emphasized perfection in all aspects, including personal appearance. As an overweight theatre kid, I felt I didn’t make the cut.
I distinctly remember the first Saturday night of my sophomore year. I was laying on the floor of my dorm room as the noise from raucous groups of kids walking Uptown toward whatever the night held seeped in through the open windows. I called my dad, tears rolling down my face. “This is going to be the same as last year,” I rushed to say as soon as he picked up. “I’m miserable.” After a first year filled with solo Netflix nights and enough studying to carry me through the rest of undergrad, I was terrified that the fact I didn’t have plans or friends to hang out with the first weekend back meant I was in for another lonely year.
You may have seen a headline on your social media feed, or even from a news outlet, about a famous celebrity caught in a scandal and subsequently being “canceled.” In 2018, comedian Kevin Hart stepped down from hosting the Oscars after homophobic tweets he wrote several years ago were brought to the public’s attention. The media firestorm that followed often referred to Hart as being “canceled.” Just this month, actress Gina Rodriguez was seen in an Instagram video singing a racial slur. Rodriguez, who has previously been accused of racist comments against the black community, was swiftly condemned from the entertainment community and fans alike.
I’m a pretty sentimental person, and behind that sentimentality resides an appreciation for tradition and a dislike for goodbyes. My traditional nature reveals itself in my predictable restaurant orders, my go-to Starbucks drink and my annual Christmas playlist. Some might call it boring, but I find comfort in familiarity and don’t apologize for refusing to stray from my usual. My dislike for goodbyes affects me most, as you might guess, at the end of things. The end of a summer job, the end of the school year and the end of a holiday season all carry with it a mix of sadness and anxiety.
On a rainy August morning, the arrival of my senior year brought me a perpetually-ticking internal clock counting down the minutes until I graduate from Miami. It’s like a New Year’s Eve countdown in slow motion, except I’m the only one in Times Square, and I’m chained to a lamppost and waiting for the ball to drop. And when it drops, there’s a strong likelihood that it’s going to drop on me.
It’s a go-to question at everything from college orientation to the Thanksgiving dinner table. “What’s your major?” And, for the longest time, my answer was simple: “biochemistry and pre-med.”