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If I had to pick one word to sum up my time at UC Berkeley it would be this: belonging. It’s an inherent human desire, this need to feel a part of something larger than ourselves, a tonic against alienation. The word usually implies a level of familiarity or knowingness
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I’ve been thinking how deep of a privilege it is to spend four years immersed in books, unearthing our curiosities and imagined potentials about the world.
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Pain has been such a big part of my life for the past decade it’s impossible for me to think of what it means to be a woman without it.
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It’s a question I ask myself whenever I’m doing something I enjoy — do I actually like this or has some twist of circumstance or sociality caused me to?
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There’s irony in the fact that a dynasty that built itself off of the subjugation of bodies of color could, in the end, be possibly ended by two Black women.
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A freshman who requested to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation from campus referred to the self-sequester as a “witch hunt.”
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In the minutes, hours, weeks and months following her death, I’ve struggled to articulate how deeply affected and freshly cut I am by her newfound absence.
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Ever since my grandma was put on a ventilator this past August, I’ve been keeping a list of things on my phone to tell her once she comes home. Naive and hopeful, the list initially consisted of a few clipped bullets, hastily written whenever I thought of her.
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So, this coming Tuesday, vote. Vote because our ability and opportunity to do so, like much of American history, is being challenged once again.
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The first time I read Kristen Roupenian’s “Cat Person,” spellbindingly scrolling down my phone in the last row of a monotonous film lecture, I felt like somebody had captured my most intimate thoughts, thoughts I hadn’t even fully processed, and beautifully expressed them in one heartbreaking, disgusting, cringe-inducing short story.
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