The proposed cuts were announced mere minutes before I was to interview the dean and assistant dean of the Music, Theatre & Dance School. When we sat down, it was clear they were still digesting the potential loss of the NEA.
My best friend from the University of Washington messaged me the other day: “Last class of my undergraduate degree!” I responded positively, albeit less animated than usual as I was waking up from a nap. When I got up from my bed, I walked to the bathroom and stared at my reflection.
My dad used to read me Helen Palmer's “Do You Know What I’m Going to Do Next Saturday” before bed. I remember falling asleep planning my own next Saturday. I guess I still do that today.
Do you know what I'm going to do next Saturday? Well sir … let me tell you.
Springfield Street, a short stretch of asphalt on Detroit’s east side, used to have so many elm trees shading the road that Detroiters could barely see the sky as they drove on their way to the freeway.
For the millionth time, he did not deliver me.
Like any good story, my column starts when a girl walks into a bar. However, this one happens to be my bar, a hallowed hall and point of pride. It’s personal, confessing to which drinking establishment to which you tether time and esteem.
Campuses across the nation have been roiled by the question of changing history, or the desire to reconcile modern morality with the darker points of an academic institution’s history.
What if I never got into the habit of carrying around a reusable water bottle because my mother liked the ease and aesthetic of red Solo cups?