Disability

Soccer wasn’t just guys passing a ball around a field. It was this feeling — lightning in a bottle. It didn’t matter that I was disabled and couldn’t even imagine myself playing the sport.

“The Lost King,” a dramatization of Langley’s relentless hunt for Richard’s final resting place, is a charming (if slow-paced) dramedy that follows a lone woman’s challenge against the academics that wished to ignore her and the erroneous beliefs of a controversial king.

But while all men aren’t “bad,” they all have inherited a society which severely needs to reconsider what it means to be a boy, and more crucially, what it means to be human.

My body hurts me — every single day, eight days a week, year upon year, with no sick days. There is no end, no cure, no fix.

UC Berkeley opened its new Disability Cultural Community Center, or DCC, on Tuesday in the Hearst Field Annex, becoming one of the first college campuses to create a center dedicated solely to the disabled community. 

Encampments are often the only safe, stable spaces for the houseless community where service providers can remain in contact — and sweeping encampments is entirely for the aesthetics of gentrification.

The concern for those with disabilities and high-risk students should be enough to warrant the continuation of the mask mandate.

 I was somewhat aware of my erratic pursuits of dopamine and novel stimuli, but the problem was that there wasn’t a language in my culture to identify and to describe these issues, and certainly not in a healthy, constructive way.

In less than two weeks, I begin the end of my undergraduate career: the end of an era. The end of my life as a student, the precipice before I have to figure it all out somehow.

When you read my columns, I want you to laugh along with me at the absurdity of this disabled body of mine. My goal is not to make you feel sorry for all that I endure.