It’s about 5 p.m. on a Tuesday in August, and I am sitting in a big, empty, dim room. Medieval-looking chandeliers hang above my head. Stationed around me at a long, rectangular table are other first-year Swarthmore students in my social justice
I always crave mozzarella sticks from Essie’s at ten o’clock on Wednesday nights. I’m not sure why mozzarella sticks exactly — maybe it’s because they’re weighty, and I crave them in the hopes they’ll anchor me to the ground. Regardless, I know
I don’t know how you tear a building down. Maybe it involves explosives, charges shaped in such a way that the whole structure collapses nicely in on itself. Or perhaps it has something to do with wrecking balls and bulldozers. Or could
I have four clear memories of my first day at Swarthmore — more feelings at this point. The acute humiliation of a cool frat bro helping me carry a literal arms’ worth of tampons from Ben West to my dorm. The panic